Classic Poem

ODE XXX.

PERAMBULATORY MUSINGS,

FROM BLENHEIM HOUSE, AT WOODSTOCK, IN OXFORDSHIRE, THE SEAT OF THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH, TO TITLEY
HOUSE, IN HEREFORDSHIRE, THE SEAT OF WILLIAM GREENY

TO A LADY.


Where B LENHEIM 's turrets rise to view,
And where at length to nature true,
Grave V ANBRUGH , wearying long his head,
Soften'd down his house of lead;
And where, as bends the spacious dome,
The rival arts of Greece and Rome
Still live in Rysbrac's free design,
And still in Ruben's colouring shine;
Where Marlborough's valour, Marlborough's praise
The fair-wrought tapestry displays,
'Mid varying pleasures, thro' the day,
Who might not linger life away?
O F now, as spreads the fair domain
O'er lake, or lawn, o'er hill or plain,
Thro' woods, and groves, or vista clear,
The crystal rivulet sparkling near,
Still loitering, idly gay, along
Muse as inspir'd, the Sylvan song?

How vain the wish! How quick the change!
Thro' simpler scenes my footsteps range,
Where nature smiles in peerless grace,
And art but claims the second place;
Scenes trimm'd by Shenstone, neat and gay,
Where Faunus' self might pipe all day:
So simple, too, that not a swain
But there might wake his rudest strain.
Hail! Leasowes, now I climb thy hill,
Now bless the babbling of each rill,
Now wander down the friary glade,
Till rous'd I hear the hoarse cascade,
And glows again thro' every grove
The soul of poesy and love,
Then soft I sigh in past'ral strain,
Nor dream of Bleinheim-house again.
Sometimes sad, and sometimes gay,
Like careless pilgrim still I stray,
Till soon arrived at Hagley bower,
I sigh to linger there an hour;
Where Littleton in learned ease
Polish'd his verse, and prun'd his trees;
Where Pope, the tuneful groves among,
Soft as at Twickenham, pour'd the song;
And Thomson fix'd in colours clear
The changeful seasons of the year.
Hail classic scenes! The willing muse
Her flowers of many-mingling hues
Might here entwine, and once again
Hagley bloom forth in cheerful strain.
Then, farewell, Shenstone's simpler scene;
The rustic seat, the meadow green,
Willows, that near the riv'let weep,
The murmuring bees, the milk white sheep.
When Hagley's beauties rise to view,
Yes! I could bid you all, adieu!

Ever musing, ever ranging,
Ever pleas'd, yet ever changing,
Murmuring onward still I go,
As brooks thro' winding vallies flow,
That sparkle still, and still complain,
That every rude restraint disdain,
And gliding on some talent ore,
Steal something not possess'd before;
Then flow along in headlong haste,
And babble o'er the ferny waste.

Ah! then, does nature deck in vain
The hill and vale, the grove, the plain;
And can her curious hand supply
Nothing to fix this vagrant eye?
Shall art still vary, still improve
The winding walk, the tapering grove,
And yet man's restless heart implore
With miser-mutterings something more?

Thus onward, slow I bend my way,
Till soon to Titley-house I stray,
And now delights me most of all
The fair retreat of Titley-hall;
Where near fair Eywood's seat is seen,
And Oxford smiles, like Beauty's queen,
Where Shobden's terrace glitters high,
And varying mountains meet the sky.
— But when such numerous charms invite,
Why most does Titley-house delight?
— Eliza there, melodious maid,
Such measures to my ears convey'd,
As had Cecilia been but near,
Cecilia had not scorn'd to hear:
Softly sad, or sweetly strong,
She directs the varied song,
To native scenes new charms can give,
And bids the breathing canvass live;
Or, as the sports and loves inspire,
Wakes the soul-subduing lyre;
Hence I welcom'd most of all
The fair retreat of Titley-hall.

Vocal groves and tuneful streams,
Kindling wild poetic dreams,
Where Dryad nymphs are wont to stray,
Or Naiads swim in wanton play:
Mounts that climb Jove's vaulted sky,
While Ocean's God rolls thundering by;
Vallies rich, and meadows fair,
Touch'd with Flora's pencil rare,
Rare, as when the nymph was led
By Zephyrus to her bridal bed,
(Then pencil'd did the fields appear,
In all the glories of the year:)
Widest glens, and deepest glades,
Curving walks, and hoarse cascades,
All that Nature loves to impart,
Or owns the plastic charm of art;
All that Fancy dares conceive,
Or Fiction's various hand can weave;
All must cloy the sated eye,
Till beauty's lovely form be nigh:
Where woman walks, there seems to appear
The Venus of the smiling year;
Far from her we feed on sighs,
Thro' roving fields of Paradise.