Classic Poem

And then he stirr'd, rowling his heavy eye
Towards the vault of the enamell'd skie,
Which now thick set with sparkling Stars he sees,
That but of late had been no firends of his,
And by the favour of the twinkling light,
The Castle too appear'd above in sight.
By which he faintly recollected where
His Worship was, though not how he came there:
But this small sence dide opportunely come
To help him make a shift to stumble home.
Thither he comes, and knocking at the door
(Though not so hard as he was knockt before)
His Master hears at first, and cries Who's there:
Why (poorly cries the other) I am here
Up starts the Master straight, and lets him in;
I'th'Name of God (quoth he) where hast thou been
That thou'rt thus late? to which the wise Reply
Was this, Nay Master what the Dee'l know I?
But somewhere I have had a lungeous faw
I'm sure o' that, and, Master, that's nee aw.
A Candle that was lighted when his sconce
Did represent Raw-head , and Bloody-bones.
A lungeous fall indeed, the Master said
Thy very looks would make a man afraid,
Thou hast drunk deep, thy Hogs-head on the tilt,
But where's my Mare? No matter where, hoo's kilt,
Replies the man, i'th morninck send, and see,
The devils power go with these Torrs for me.
His Dame was call'd, andhe soon got to bed,
Where she did wash, and dress his great Calves-head,
So well, that in the morning 'twas his care
To go, and fley, not to fetch home his Mare:
But she had shar'd his fortune, and was found
Grazing within the Calley safe and sound,
Sans hurt, or blemish, save a little strip
Of hair and skin rippled upon her hip.
The hat, saddle and cloth, denoted well,
As they were scatter'd found, just where they fell,
And yet as oft, as I the place do view,
I scarce believe, although I know this true:
But whosoere shall happen to come there,
Will not reprove what I've deliver'd here;
Since with his Eyes he may the place behold,
And hear this truth affirm'd that I have told.

Southward from hence ten miles, where Derwent laves
His broken Shoars with never clearing waves,
There stands a stately, and stupendious Pile
Like the proud Regent of the Brittish Isle,
Shedding her beams over the barren Vale,
Which else bleak winds, and nipping Frosts assail
With such perpetual War, there would appear
Nothing but Winter ten months of the year.

This Palace, with wild prospects girded round,
Stands in the middle of a falling ground,
At a black Mountains foot, whose craggy brow
Secures from Eastern-Tempests all below,
Under whose shelter Trees and Flowers grow,
With early Blossom, maugre native snow;
Which elsewhere round a Tyranny maintains,
And binds cramp Nature long in Crystal-Chains.
The Fabrick's noble Front faces the West,
Turning her fair broad shoulders to the East,
On the South-side the stately Gardens lye,
Where the scorn'd Peak rivals pround Italy
And on the North sev'ral inferior plots
For servile use scatter'd do lye in spots.

The outward Gate stands near enough, to look
Her Oval Front in the objected Brook;
But that she has better reflexion
From the large Mirror nearer of her own.
For a fair Lake, from wash of Floods unmixt,
Before it lies, an Area spread betwixt.
Over this Pond, opposite to the Grate,
A Bridge of a queint structure, strength, and state,
Invites you to pass over it, where dry
You trample may on shoals of wanton Fry,
With which those breeding waters do abound,
And better Carps are no where to be found.
A Tower of Antick Model the Bridge foot
From the Peak-rabble does securely shut,
Which, by stone stairs, delivers you below
Into the sweetest Walks the worldcan show.
There Wood and Water, Sun and Shade contend,
Which shall the most delight, and most befriend;
The Grass and Gravel in the one path you meet,
For Ladies tend'rer, and mens harder feet.
Here into open Lakes the Sun may pry,
A priviledge the closer Groves deny,
Or if confed'rate winds do make them yield,
He then but chequers what he cannot guild.
The Ponds, which ere in double order shine,
Are some of them so large, and all so fine,
That Neptune in his progress once did please
To frolick in these artifcial Seas;
Of which a noble Monument we find,
His Royal Chariot left, it seems, behind;
Whose wheels and body moor'd up with a Chain,
Like Drake's old Hulk at Depthford, still remain.
No place on Earth was ere discover'd yet,
For contemplation, or delight so fit