Classic Poem

Durst I expostulate with Providence ,
I then should ask, wherein the innocence
Of my poor undesigning infancy,
Could Heaven offend to such a black degree,
As for th'offence to damn me to a place
Where Nature only suffers in disgrace.
A Country so deform'd, the Traveller
Would swear those parts Natures pudenda were:
Like Warts and Wens , hills on the one side swell,
To all but Natives inaccessible;
Th'other a blue scrofulous scum defiles,
Flowing from th'earths impostumated boyles;
That seems the steps (Mountains on Mountains thrown)
By which the Giants storm'd the Thunderers throne,
This from that prospect seems the sulph'rous flood,
Where sinful Sodom and Gomorrah stood.

'Twixt these twin- Provinces of Britains shame,
The Silver Dove (how pleasant is that name)
Runs through a Vale high crested Cliffs o'reshade;
(By her fair Progress only pleasant made:)
But with so swift a Torrent in her course,
As shews the Nymph flies from her native source,
To seek what there's deny'd, the Suns warm Beams,
And to embrace Trents prouder swelling streams.
In this so craggy, ill-contriv'd a Nook
Of this our little world, this pretty Brook
Alas! is all the recompence I share,
For all th'intemperancies of the Air ,
Perpetual Winter , endless solitude ,
Or the society of men so rude,
That it is ten times worse. Thy murmurs ( Doye )
Or humour Lovers; or men fall in love
With thy bright beauties, and thy fair blue eyes
Wound like a Parthian , whilst the shooter flies.
Of all fair Thetis Daughters none so bright,
So pleasant none to taste, none to the sight,
None yields the gentle Angler such delight.
To which the bounty of her stream is such,
As only with a swift and transient touch,
T'enrich her steril borders as she glides,
And force sweet flowers from their marble sides.

North-East from this fair Rivers head there lies
A Country that abounds with Rarities ,
They call them Wonders there, and be they so;
But the whole Country sure's a wonder too,
And Mother of the rest, which seven are,
And one of them so singularly rare,
As does indeed amount to miracle,
And all the Kingdom boasts so far excel,
It ought not, I confess, to be prophan'd
By my poor Muse ; nor should an artless hand
Presume to take a Crayon up, to trace
But the faint Land-scape of so brave a place.
Yet, noble Chatsworth , for I speak of thee,
Pardon the love will prompt the injury
My pen must do thee, when, before I end,
I fix dishonour, where I would commend.

The first of these I meet with in my way,
Is a vast Cave , which the old people say
One Poole an Out-law made his residence;
But why he did so, or for what offence,
The Beagles of the Law should press so near,
As, spight of horrors self, to earth him there,
Is in our times a Riddle ; and in this
Tradition most unkindly silent is:
But whatsoe're his Crime, than such a Cave
A worse imprisonment he could not have.

At a high Mountains foot, whose lofty crest
O're-looks the Marshy Prospect of the West ;
Under its Base there is an Overture
Which Summer Weeds do render so obscure,
The careless Traveller may pass, and ne're
Discover, or suspect an entry there:
But such a one there is, as we might well
Think it the Crypto-porticus of Hell ,
Had we not been instructed, that the Gate,
Which to Destruction leads, is nothing straight.

Through a blind door (which some poor Woman there
Still keeps the Key of, that it may keep her)
Men bowing low, take leave of days fair light,
To crowd themselves into the Womb of Night,
Through such a low and narrow pass, that it
For Badgers, Wolves , and Foxes seems more fit;
Or for the yet less sorts of Chaces , then
T'admit the Statures, and the Bulks of men,
Could it to reason any way appear,
That men could find out any business there.
But having fifteen paces crept or more,
Through pointed stones and dirt upon all four,
The gloomy Grotto lets men upright rise,
Although they were six times Goliah 's size.
There, looking upward, your astonish'd sight
Beholds the glory of the sparkling light
Th'enamel'd Roof darts round about the place,
With so subduing, but ingrateful rays;
As to put out the lights, by which alone
They receive luster, that before had none,
And must to darkness be resign'd when they are gone.
But here a roaring Torrent bids you stand,
Forcing you climb a Rock on the right hand,