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Whofe care, like her's, protects the fylvan reign,

The Earth's fair light, and Empress of the main.


Here, too, 'tis fung, of old Diana stray'd,

And Cynthus' top forfook for Windfor fhade;
Here was she seen o'er airy wastes to rove,
Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless grove;
Here arm'd with filver bows, in early dawn,
Her bufkin'd Virgins trac'd the dewy lawn.
Above the reft a rural nymph was fam'd,
Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona nam'd
(Lodona's fate, in long oblivion cast,




The Muse shall fing, and what she fings shall last).
Scarce could the Goddefs from her nymph be known,
But by the crefcent, and the golden zone.
She fcorn'd the praise of beauty, and the care;
A belt her waift, a fillet binds her hair;
A painted quiver on her shoulder founds,
And with her dart the flying deer she wounds.
It chanc'd, as, eager of the chace, the maid
Beyond the foreft's verdant limits stray'd,
Pan faw and lov'd, and burning with defire
Pursued her flight, her flight increas'd his fire.
Not half fo fwift the trembling doves can fly,
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;
Not half fo fwiftly the fierce eagle moves,


When through the clouds he drives the trembling doves;
As from the God fhe flew with furious pace,
Or as the God, more furious, urg'd the chace.
Now fainting, finking, pale, the nymph appears;
Now close behind, his founding fteps she hears;



And now his fhadow reach'd her as she run,
His fhadow lengthen'd by the setting fun;
And now his shorter breath, with fultry air,
Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.
In vain on father Thames the calls for aid,
Nor could Diana help her injur'd maid.


Faint, breathlefs, thus fhe pray'd, nor pray'd in vain; "Ah, Cynthia! ah-though banish'd from thy train, 200 "Let me, O let me, to the fhades repair,



"My native fhades-there weep, and murmur there.”
She said, and, melting as in tears fhe lay,
In a foft filver ftream diffolv'd away.
The filver stream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps ;
Still bears the name the haplefs virgin bore,
And bathes the foreft where the rang'd before.
In her chafte current oft the Goddess laves,
And with celeftial tears augments the waves.
Oft in her glafs the mufing fhepherd fpies
The headlong mountains and the downward skies,
The watery landskip of the pendant woods,
And absent trees that tremble in the floods;
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,
And floating forests paint the waves with green;
Through the fair scene roll flow the lingering ftreams,
Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames.
Thou, too, great father of the British floods!
With joyful pride furvey'ft our lofty woods;
Where towering oaks their growing honours rear,
And future navies on thy fhores appear,





Not Neptune's felf from all her streams receives
A wealthier tribute, than to thine he gives.
No feas fo rich, so gay no banks appear,
No lake fo gentle, and no spring so clear.
Nor Po fo fwells the fabling Poet's lays,
While led along the skies his current strays,
As thine, which vifits Windfor's fam'd abodes,
grace the mansion of our earthly Gods:
Nor all his stars above a luftre show,

Like the bright Beauties on thy banks below;
Where Jove, fubdued by mortal passion still,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.

Happy the man whom this bright Court approves,
His Sovereign favours, and his Country loves:
Happy next him, who to these shades retires,



Whom Nature charms, and whom the Muse inspires;
Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please,
Succeffive study, exercise, and ease.

He gathers health from herbs the forest yields,
And of their fragrant phyfic spoils the fields:
With chemic arts exalt the mineral powers,
And draws the aromatic fouls of flowers:



Ver. 233. It ftood thus in the MS.

And force great Jove, if Jove's a lover still,
To change Olympus, &c.

Ver. 235.

Happy the man, who to the fhades retires,

But doubly happy, if the Muse inspires!

Bleft whom the fweets of home-felt quiet please;
But far more blest, who study joins with ease.


Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high;
O'er figur'd worlds now travels with his eye;
Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store,
Confults the dead, and lives paft ages o'er:
Or wandering thoughtful in the filent wood,
Attends the duties of the wife and good,
T'observe a mean, be to himself a friend,



To follow nature, and regard his end;

Or looks on heaven with more than mortal eyes,
Bids his free foul expatiate in the skies,

Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,


Survey the region, and confefs her home!

Such was the life great Scipio once admir'd,

Thus Atticus, and Trumbal thus retir'd.

Ye facred Nine! that all my foul poffefs,


Whofe raptures fire me, and whose visions blefs,
Bear me, oh bear me to fequefter'd scenes,
The bowery mazes, and furrounding greens;
To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye Mufes fport on Cooper's Hill
(On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow,
While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow):
I seem through confecrated walks to rove,

I hear foft mufic die along the grove:



Ver. 267. It ftood thus in the MS.

Methinks around your holy fcenes I


And hear your music echoing through the grove:
With transport vifit each inspiring fhade
By God-like Poets venerable made.


Led by the found, I roam from shade to shade,
By god-like poets venerable made :

Here his firft lays majestic Denham fung;


There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue. O early loft! what tears the river fhed,

When the fad pomp along his banks was led!

His drooping fwans on every note expire,
And on his willows hung each Mufe's lyre.
Since fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly voice,

No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice;



Who now shall charm the shades, where Cowley ftrung
His living harp, and lofty Denham fung?
But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings!
Are thefe reviv'd? or is it Granville fings!
'Tis yours, my Lord, to blefs our foft retreats,
And call the Muses to their ancient feats;
To paint anew the flowery fylvan fcenes,


To crown the forests with immortal greens,
Make Windfor hills in lofty numbers rise,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
To fing thofe honours you deferve to wear,
And add new luftre to her filver star.




Ver. 275

What fighs, what murmurs, fill'd the vocal fhore!
His tuneful fwans were heard to fing no more.

Ver. 290. her filver ftar.] All the lines that follow were not added to the poem till the year 1710. What immediately followed this, and made the conclufion, were thefe,

My humble Muse, in unambitious ftrains,
Paints the green forefts and the flowery plains;


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