An
ODE
to
a
GENTLEMAN
,
On
his
pitching
a
Tent
in
his
GARDEN
.
By
the
Same
.
AH
!
friend
,
forbear
,
nor
fright
the
fields
With
hostile
scenes
of
imag'd
war
;
Content
still
roves
the
blooming
wilds
,
And
sheds
her
mildest
influence
there
:
Ah
!
drive
not
the
sweet
wand'rer
from
her
seat
,
Nor
with
rude
arts
profane
her
latest
best
retreat
.
Are
there
not
bowers
,
and
sylvan
scenes
,
By
nature's
kind
luxuriance
wove
?
Has
Romely
lost
the
living
greens
Which
erst
adorn'd
her
artless
grove
?
Where
thro'
each
hallow'd
haunt
the
poet
stray'd
,
And
met
the
willing
Muse
,
and
peopled
every
shade
.
But
now
no
bards
thy
woods
among
,
Shall
wait
th'
inspiring
Muse's
call
;
For
tho'
to
mirth
and
festal
song
Thy
choice
devotes
the
woven
wall
,
Yet
what
avails
that
all
be
peace
within
,
If
horrors
guard
the
gate
,
and
scare
us
from
the
scene
?
'Tis
true
of
old
the
patriarch
spread
His
happier
tents
which
knew
not
war
,
And
chang'd
at
will
the
trampled
mead
For
fresher
greens
and
purer
air
;
But
long
has
man
forgot
such
simple
ways
,
Truth
unsuspecting
harm
!
—
the
dream
of
ancient
days
.
Ev'n
he
,
cut
off
from
human
kind
,
(
Thy
neighb'ring
wretch
)
the
child
of
Care
,
Who
to
his
native
mines
confin'd
,
Nor
sees
the
sun
,
nor
breathes
the
air
,
But
'midst
the
damps
and
darkness
of
earth's
womb
Drags
out
laborious
life
,
and
scarcely
dreads
the
tomb
;
Ev'n
he
,
should
some
indulgent
chance
Transport
him
to
thy
sylvan
reign
,
Would
eye
the
floating
veil
askance
,
And
hide
him
in
his
caves
again
,
While
dire
presage
in
every
breeze
that
blows
Hears
shrieks
and
clashing
arms
,
and
all
Germania's
woes
.
And
doubt
not
thy
polluted
taste
A
sudden
vengeance
shall
pursue
;
Each
fairy
form
we
whilom
trac'd
Along
the
morn
or
evening
dew
,
Nymph
,
Satyr
,
Faun
,
shall
vindicate
their
grove
,
Robb'd
of
its
genuine
charms
,
and
hospitable
Jove
.
I
see
,
all-arm'd
with
dews
unblest
,
Keen
frosts
,
and
noisome
vapours
drear
,
Already
,
from
the
bleak
north-east
,
The
Genius
of
the
wood
appear
!
—
Far
other
office
once
his
prime
delight
,
To
nurse
thy
saplings
tall
,
and
heal
the
harms
of
night
,
With
ringlets
quaint
to
curl
thy
shade
,
To
bid
the
infect
tribes
retire
,
To
guard
thy
walks
and
not
invade
—
O
wherefore
then
provoke
his
ire
?
Alas
!
with
prayers
,
with
tears
his
rage
repel
,
While
yet
the
red'ning
shoots
with
embryo-blossoms
swell
.
Too
late
thou'lt
weep
,
when
blights
deform
The
fairest
produce
of
the
year
;
Too
late
thou'lt
weep
,
when
every
storm
Shall
loudly
thunder
in
thy
ear
,
"
Thus
,
thus
the
green-hair'd
deities
maintain
"
Their
own
eternal
rights
,
and
Nature's
injur'd
reign
.
"