The lofty elms in humble majesty

Bend with the breeze to shade the solemn groves,
And spread an holy darkness; Ceres there
Shines in her golden vesture. Here the meads
Enrich'd by Flora's dædal hand, with pride
Expose their spotted verdure. Nor are you,
Pomona, absent; you'midst hoary leaves
Swell the vermilion cherry; and on yon trees
Suspend the pippin's palatable gold.
There old Sylvanus in that moss-grown' grot
Dwells with his wood-nymphs: they with
lets green

Illustrious parent of the best of men!
For thee Antiquity's thrice sacred springs
Placidly stagnant at their fountain head,
I rashly dare to trouble (if from thence
I aught for thy utility an drain)

And russet mantles oft bedight, aloft
From yon bent oaks, in Medway's bosom fair
Wonder at silver bleak, and prickly pearch,
That swiftly thro' their floating forests glide.
Yet not even these-these ever varied scenes
Of wealth and pleasure can engage my eyes
To'erlook the lowly hawthorn, if from thence
The thrush, sweet warbler, chants th' unstudied
lays

Which Phoebus' self, vaulting from yonder cloud
Refulgent, with enliv'ning ray inspires.
But neither tow'ring spires, nor lofty elms,
Nor golden Ceres, nor the meadows green,
Nor orchats, nor the russet mantled nymphs
Which to the murmurs of the Medway dance,
Nor sweetly warbling thrush, with half those
charms

Attract my eyes, as yonder hop-land close,
Joint-work of Art and Nature, which reminds
The Muse, and to her theme the wand'rer calls.
Here then with pond'rous vehicles and teams
Thy rustics send, and from the caverns deep
Command them bring the chalk: thence to the
kiln

Convey, and temper with Vulcanian fires.
Soon as 'tis form'd, thy lime with bounteous hand
O'er all thy lands disseminate; thy lands
Which first have felt the softening spade, and
drank

The strength'ning vapours from nutritious marl.
This done, select the choicest hop, t' insert
Fresh in the opening glebe. Say then, my Muse,
Its various kinds, and from th' effete and vile,
The eligible separate with care.

The noblest species is by Kentish wights
The Master-hop yclep'd. Nature to him
Has giv❜n a stouter stalk, patient of cold,
Or Phoebus ev'n in youth, his verdant blood
In brisk saltation circulates and flows
Indesinently vigorous: the next
Is arid, fetid, infecund, and gross,
Significantly styl'd the Fryar: the last
Is call'd the Savage, who in ev'ry wood,
And ev'ry hedge unintroduc'd intrudes.
When such the merit of the candidates,
Easy is the election; but, my friend,
Would'st thou ne'er fail, to Kent direct thy way,
Where no one shall be frustrated that seeks
Ought that is great or good. Hail, Cantium,

hail!

Illustrious parent of the finest fruits,

Salve magna parens frugum, Saturnia tellus Magna virum; tibi res antiquæ laudis & artis Ingredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes, Ascraumque cano Romana per oppida carmen, VIRG. GEORG. 2

In those blest days when great Eliza reign'd
O'er the adoring nation, when fair peace
Or spread an unstain'd olive round the land,
Or laurell'd war did teach our winged fleets
To lord it o'er the world, when our brave sires
Drank valour from uncauponated beer;
The hop (before an interdicted plant,
Shun'd like fell aconite) began to hang
Its folded floscles from the golden vine,
And bloom'd a shade to Cantium's sunny shores
Delightsome, and in cheerful goblets laught
Potent, what time Aquarius' urn impends
To kill the dulsome day-potent to quench
The Syrian ardour, and autumnal ills
To heal with mild potations; sweeter far
Than those which erst the subtile Hengist 9 mix'd
Tinthrall voluptuous Vortigern. He, with love
Emasculate and wine, the toils of war
Neglected, and to dalliance vile and sloth
Emancipated, saw th' incroaching Saxons
With unaffected eyes; his hand which ought
T have shook the spear of justice, soft and
smooth,

Play'd ravishing divisions on the lyre:
This Hengist mark'd, and (for curs'd insolence
Soon fattens on impunity! and rises
Briareus from a dwarf) fair Thanet gain'd.
Nor stopt he here; but to immense attempts
Ambition sky-aspiring led him on
Adventrous. He an only daughter rear'd,
Roxena, matchless maid! nor rear'd in vain.
Her eagle-ey'd callidity, deceit,

And fairy fiction rais'd above her sex,
And furnish'd with a thousand various wiles
Preposterous, more than female; wondrous fair
She was, and docile, which her pious nurse
Observ'd, and early in each female fraud
Her 'gan initiate: well she knew to smile,
Whene'er vexation gall'd her; did she weep?
'Twas not sincere, the fountains of her eyes
Play'd artificial streams, yet so well fore'd
They look'd like nature; for ev'n art to her
Was natural, and contrarieties

Seem'd in Roxena congruous and allied.
Such was she, when brisk Vortigern beheld,
Ill-fated prince! and lov'd her. She perceiv'd,
Soon she perceiv'd her conquest; soon she told,
With hasty joy transported, her old sire.
The Saxon inly smil'd, and to his isle

The willing prince invited, but first bad
The nymph prepare the potions; such as fire
The blood's meandering rivulets, and depress

9 See the following story told at large in Lam. barde's Perambulation of Kent.

To love the soul. Lo! at the noon of night
Thrice Hecate invok'd the maid-and thrice
The goddess stoop'd assent; forth from a cloud
These in a splendid cup of burnish'd gold
She stoop'd, and gave the filters power to charm.
The lovely sorceress mix'd, and to the prince
Health, peace and joy propin'd, but to herself
Mutter'd dire exorcisms, and wish'd effect
To th' love-creating draught: lowly she bow'd
Fawning insinuation bland, that might
Deceive Laertes' son; her lucid orbs
Shed copiously the oblique rays; her face
Like modest Luna's shone, but not so pale,
And with no borrow'd lustre; on her brow
Smil'd fallacy, while summoning each grace,
Kneeling she gave the cup. The prince (for

who!

Who cou'd have spurn'd a suppliant so divine?)
Drank eager, and in ecstacy devour'd
Th' ambrosial perturbation; mad with love'
He clasp'd her, and in hymeneal bands
At once the nymph demanded and obtain'd.
Now Hengist, all his ample wish fulfill'd,
Exulted; and from Kent th' uxorious prince
Exterminated, and usurp'd his seat.
Long did he reign; but all-devouring time
Has raz'd his palace walls-Perchance on them
Grows the green hop, and o'er his crumbled bust
In spiral twines ascends the scantile pole.-
But now to plant, to dig, to dung, to weed;
Tasks humble, but important, ask the Muse.\
Come, fair magician, sportive Fancy, come,
With wildest imagery; thou child of thought,
From thy aerial citadel descend,

And (for thou canst) assist me. Bring with

thee

Thy all-creative talisman; with thee
The active spirits ideal, tow'ring flights,
That bover o'er the muse-resounding groves,
And all thy colourings, all thy shapes display.
Thou too be here, Experience, so shall I
My rules nor in low prose jejunely say,
Nor in smooth numbers musically err;
But vain is Fancy and Experience vain,
If thou, O Hesiod! Virgil of our land,
Or bear'st thou rather, Milton, bard divine,
Whose greatness who shalt imitate, save thee?
If thou, O Philips", fav'ring dost not hear
Me, inexpert of verse; with gentle hand
Uprear the unpinion'd Muse, high on the top
Of that immeasurable mount, that far
Exceeds thine own Plinlimmon, where thou tun'st
With Phoebus' self thy lyre. Give me to turn
Th' unwieldy subject with thy graceful ease,
Extol its baseness with thy art; but chief
Illumine, and invigorate with thy fire.

When Phoebus looks thro' Aries on the spring,
And vernal flow'rs teem with the dulcet fruit,
Autumnal pride! delay not then thy sets
In Tellus' facile bosom to depose
Timely if thou art wise the bulkiest chuse :
To every root three joints indulge, and form
The quincunx with well regulated hills.
Soon from the dung-enriched earth, their heads

10 At ipse
Subtilis Veterum judex & callidus audis.
HORAT.
Mr. John Philips, author of Cider, a poem.

groans

Down tumble the big trees, and rushing roll O'er the crush'd crackling brake, while in his

cave

Forlorn, dejected, 'midst the weeping Dryads
Laments Sylvanus for his verdant care.
The ash or willow for thy use select,
Or storm enduring ehesnut; but the oak,
Unfit for this employ, for nobler ends
Reserve untouch'd; she when by time matur'd,
Capacious of some British demi-god,
Vernon, or Warren, shall with rapid wing
Infuriate, like Jove's armour-bearing bird,
Fly on thy foes; they, like the parted waves,
Which to the brazen beak murmuring give way
Amaz'd and roaring from the fight recede.-
In that sweet month, when to the list'ning swains
Fair Philomel sings love, and every cot
With garlands blooms bedight, with bandage

meet

The tendrils bind, and to the tall poll tie,
Else soon, too soon their meretricious arms
Round each ignoble clod they'll fold, and leave
Averse the lordly prop. Thus, have I heard
Where there's no mutual tic, no strong connec-
tion

Of love-conspiring hearts, oft the young bride
Has prostituted to her slaves her charms,
While the infatuated lord admires
Fresh-butting sprouts', and issue not his own.
Now turn the glebe: soon with correcting hand,
When smiling June in jocund dance leads on
Long days and happy hours, from ev'ry vine
Dock the redundant branches, and once more
With the sharp spade thy numerous acres till.
The shovel next must lend its aid, enlarge
The little hillocks, and erase the weeds.
This in that month its title which derives
From great Augustus' ever sacred name!
Sovereign of science! master of the Muse!
Neglected genius' firm ally! of worth

Best judge, and best rewarder, whose applause
To bards was fame and fortune! O! 'twas well,
Well did you too in this, all glorious heroes!
Ye Romans!-on Time'swing you've stamp'd his
praise,

And time shall bear it to eternity.

Now are our labours crown'd with their reward, Now bloom the florid hops, and in the stream Shine in their floating silver, while above

1a Miraturque novas frondes, & non sua poma. VIRGO

Tembow'ring branches culminate, and form
A walk impervious to the Sun; the poles
In comely order stand; and while you cleave
With the small skiff the Medway's lucid wave,
In comely order still their ranks preserve,
And seem to march along th' extensive plain.
lu neat arrangement thus the men of Kent,
With native oak at once adorn'd and arm`d,
Intrepid march'd; for well they knew the cries
Of dying Freedom, and Astræa's voice,
Who as she fled, to echoing woods complain'd
Of tyranny, and William; like a god,
Refulgent stood the conqueror, on his troops
He sent his looks enliv'ning as the Sun's,
But on his foes frown'd agony, and death.
On his left side in bright emblazonry

His falchion burn'd; forth from his sevenfold shield
A basilisk shot adamant; hs bow
Wore clouds of fury!-on that with plumage
crown'd

Of various hue sat a tremendous cone:
Thus sits high-canopied above the clouds,
Terrific beauty of nocturnal skies,

Northern Aurora'3; she thro' th' azure air Shoots, shoots her trem'lous rays in painted streaks

Continual, while waving to the wind

O'er Night's dark veil her lucid tresses flow.
The trav❜ler views th' unseemly day
Astound, the proud bend lowly to the earth,
The pious matrons tremble for the world.
But what can daunt th' insuperable sou!s
Of Cantium's matchless sons? On they proceed,
All innocent of fear; each face express'd
Contemptuous admiration, while they view'd
The well fed brigades of embroider'd slaves
That drew the sword for gain. First of the van,
With an enormous bough, a shepherd swain
Whistled with rustic notes; but such as show'd
A heart magnanimous: the men of Kent
Follow the tuneful swain, while o'er their heads
The green leaves whisper, and the big boughs

bend.

Joyous; but soon the treacherous gloom betrays
Th' unwary visitor, while on his head
Th' enlarging drops in double show'rs descend.
And now no longer in disguise the men
Of Kent appear; down they all drop their boughs,
And shine in brazen panoply divine.

Enough great William (for full well he knew
How vain would be the conquest) to the sons
Of glorious Cantium gave their lives, and laws,
And liberties secure, and to the prowess
Of Cantium's sons, like Cæsar, deign'd to yield.
Cæsar and Williamhail immortal worthies,
Illustrious vanquish'd! Cantium, if to them,
Posterity with all her chiefs unborn,
Aught similar, aught second has to boast.
Once more (so prophesies the Muse) thy sons
Shall triumph, emulous of their sires-till then
With olive, and with hop-garlands crown'd,
O'er all thy land reign plenty, reign fair peace.

Ar length the Musc her destin'd task resumes
With joy; agen o'er all her hop-land groves
She seeks t'expatiate free of wing. Long while
For a much-loving, much-lov'd youth she wept,
Sorrowing in silence o'er th' untimely urn.
Hush then, effeminate sobs; and thou, my heart,
Rebel to grief no more-Aud yet a while,
A little while, indulge the friendly tears.
O'er the wild world, like Noah's dove, in vain
I seek the olive peace, around me wide
See! see! the wat'ry waste-In vain forlorn
I call the phenix, fair Sincerity;
Alas!-extinguish'd to the skies she fled,
And left no heir behind her.

Where is now

That from th' oblivious streams of Lethe's pool
Has drank eternal apathy, he stood.
His host an universal panic seiz'd
Prodigious, inopine; their armour shook,
And clatter'd to the trembling of their limbs;
Some to the walking wilderness gan run
Confus'd, and in th' inhospitable shade

That all-extensive charity of soul,
So rich in sweetness, that the classic sounds
In elegance Augustan cloth'd, the wit
That flow'd perennial, hardly were observ'd,
Or, if observ'd, set off that brighter gem.
How oft, and yet how seldom did it seem!
Have I enjoy'd his converse?-When we met,
The hours how swift they sweetly fled, and till
Agen I saw him how they loiter'd. Oh!
Theophilus', thou dear departed soul,
What flattering tales thou told'st me? How
thou'dst hail

My Muse, and took'st imaginary walks

Eternal shelter in the arms of death!

Thou dear deluder, thou hast seen but half-
He's gone! aud aught that's equal to his praise
Fame has not for me, tho' she prove most kind.
Howe'er this verse be sacred to thy name,
These tears, the last sad duty of a friend.
Oft I'll indulge the pleasurable pain

Mr. Theophilus Wheeler, of Christ Church, Cambridge.