STUDLEY
.
TO
MISS
B—
F—
.
NOR
Phoebus
,
nor
his
tuneful
choir
,
To
notes
poetic
wake
my
string
:
A
mortal
Muse
demands
my
lyre
,
O
,
were
she
present
while
I
sing
!
To
soar
aloft
,
beyond
the
ken
Of
human
eyes
,
let
others
boast
:
'Tis
BETSY
that
directs
my
pen
;
My
verse
,
not
seen
by
her
,
were
lost
.
No
longer
prate
,
ye
critics
vain
,
That
poets
are
not
made
,
but
born
:
If
BETSY
smile
upon
the
strain
,
Your
censure's
keenest
lash
I
scorn
.
Yet
were
my
creeping
Muse
to
soar
,
Sure
Reason's
good
might
still
be
given
:
STUDLEY
was
Paradise
before
;
But
BETSY's
presence
made
it
heaven
.
—
O
for
a
quill
pluck'd
from
the
eagle-wing
Of
bright
Imagination
,
first
of
Powers
!
Then
might
my
earth-born
Muse
aspire
to
sing
Strains
not
unworthy
STUDLEY's
charming
bowers
.
Come
,
Nymph
,
and
with
thee
,
Memory
,
kind
maid
,
The
sweet
remembrancer
of
pleasures
past
:
How
there
with
BETSY
hand
in
hand
I
stray'd
.
Ay
me
,
such
pleasures
were
too
great
to
last
!
She
comes
,
she
comes
!
enthron'd
in
F—'s
eyes
,
She
deigns
to
smile
on
such
a
wretch
as
me
:
Her
fostering
art
its
kindly
aid
supplies
,
And
from
gross
film
my
visual
nerve
sets
free
.
Conduct
me
,
Goddess
,
to
that
blest
retreat
,
In
union
fair
,
where
all
the
Graces
join
;
Where
Elegance
has
fix'd
her
best-lov'd
seat
,
And
Taste
and
Nature
every
power
combine
.
And
lo
!
the
Park
first
opens
to
the
view
!
Mark
well
its
verdant
hills
,
its
flowery
dells
:
Not
Windsor-forest
nobler
scenes
can
shew
;
Not
Stowe
,
where
Cobham
dwelt
,
where
Temple
dwells
.
The
curious
eye
,
intranc'd
in
wonder
,
sees
Here
gurgling
streamlets
tremble
thro'
the
shade
;
Here
nimble
squirrels
gambol
in
the
trees
,
There
bounding
fawns
trip
wanton
thro'
the
glade
.
Look
back
on
Rippon's
venerable
pile
!
There
cloistered
Monks
their
nightly
vespers
sung
,
While
thro'
the
solemn
,
gloomy
,
Gothic
aile
,
The
hollow
vaults
responsive
echoes
rung
.
See
slopes
on
slopes
th'
enchanting
prospect
bound
,
Nor
knows
the
dubious
Fancy
where
to
rest
:
New
sweets
invite
above
,
below
,
around
;
Giddy
with
rapture
,
she
scarce
feels
she's
blest
.
The
gates
fly
ope
!
Elysium
stands
confest
,
And
bursts
upon
us
in
a
blaze
of
charms
;
E'en
such
a
transport
throbs
in
Damon's
breast
,
When
yielding
Chloe
melts
into
his
arms
.
No
more
,
ye
gaudy
poets
,
deck
with
flowers
Your
fairy
gardens
on
the
Western
shore
,
Or
add
fresh
bloom
to
fam'd
Alcinous'
bowers
;
Vain
Greece
,
thy
fabled
Tempe
boast
no
more
.
Whate'er
creation
form'd
,
or
rules
could
frame
,
Refin'd
or
simple
,
natural
or
new
,
Compound
together
.
Can
it
need
a
name
?
View
STUDLEY's
lawns
,
and
own
the
picture
true
.
Where
to
begin
?
where
end
?
the
labouring
soul
,
Lost
and
bewilder'd
in
a
world
of
sweets
,
Vainly
attempts
at
once
to
grasp
the
whole
;
Such
various
joy
its
various
senses
greets
.
Ambrosial
scents
the
ravish'd
smell
regale
;
Each
shrub
around
a
balmy
odour
flings
:
Such
as
Arabia's
spicy
groves
exhale
,
Wafted
by
Zephyrs
on
their
rosy
wings
.
The
birds
salute
us
with
their
artless
notes
,
The
bulfinch
,
linnet
,
nightingale
,
and
thrush
;
Wild
harmony
,
strain'd
thro'
a
thousand
throats
,
Trills
in
each
tree
,
and
dies
in
every
bush
.
Proud
to
adorn
the
pendent
shades
it
laves
,
Seest
thou
that
lake
its
heaving
bosom
swell
?
In
headlong
sheets
pour
its
enamour'd
waves
,
Amidst
such
beauties
well
content
to
dwell
?
But
other
waves
to
other
waves
succeed
,
Coursing
each
other
to
the
seat
they
love
;
With
eager
haste
they
glide
along
the
mead
,
And
murmuring
struggle
thro'
the
grot
above
.
Retir'd
from
publick
haunt
one
The
Banqueting-house
.
structure
stands
,
Sacred
to
Comus
and
his
festive
train
;
Where
genial
Freedom
unrestrain'd
commands
,
Where
none
are
strangers
deem'd
but
Care
and
Pain
.
All
elegance
and
ease
,
without
,
within
,
They
bid
defiance
to
the
frowns
of
Fate
;
Nor
care
what
man
goes
out
,
or
who
comes
in
,
Whirl'd
in
the
topsy-turvy
wheel
of
state
.
Climb
we
yon
lofty
summit
,
crown'd
with
wood
,
The
quivering
poplar
,
the
wide-branching
oak
,
The
taper
fir
,
the
ash
,
for
all
things
good
.
Long
may
they
,
long
defy
the
woodman's
stroke
.
Here
rest
we
then
—
and
each
way
turn
our
eyes
;
No
where
our
eyes
an
empty
chasm
can
find
;
Domes
,
temples
,
obelisks
at
each
point
arise
;
We
half
forget
the
wonders
left
behind
.
Objects
at
every
point
our
sight
invade
,
Yet
the
keen
judgment
finds
not
where
to
chide
:
AISLABIE
still
calls
Nature
to
his
aid
,
Nor
makes
a
sacrifice
of
sense
to
pride
.
But
can
we
then
that
ruined
,
reverend
Fountain's
Abbey
.
tower
,
Leave
undistinguish'd
'midst
the
common
throng
,
There
many
a
hoary
devotee
of
yore
Awak'd
the
sky-lark
with
his
early
song
.
What
tho'
the
lazy
bat
and
screech
owl
dire
Reign
sole
possessors
of
the
gloomy
fane
?
Souls
once
were
there
,
in
whom
poetic
fire
Beat
in
each
pulse
,
and
glow'd
in
every
vein
.
Observe
its
mouldering
base
and
moss-grown
head
Threaten
its
final
dissolution
nigh
!
To
man
what
better
lesson
can
be
read
?
What
moralist
can
better
teach
to
die
?
Ah
!
let
us
,
ere
the
fatal
die
be
cast
,
Think
well
(
for
surely
one
day
think
we
must
)
That
stately
STUDLEY's
pride
must
fall
at
last
,
And
lovely
BETSY's
form
submit
to
dust
!