To
a
LADY
,
sent
with
a
Present
of
Shells
and
Stones
design'd
for
a
GROTTO
.
By
the
Same
.
WIth
gifts
like
these
,
the
spoils
of
neighb'ring
shores
,
The
Indian
swain
his
sable
love
adores
,
Off'rings
well
suited
to
the
dusky
shrine
Of
his
rude
goddess
,
but
unworthy
mine
:
And
yet
they
seem
not
such
a
worthless
prize
,
If
nicely
view'd
by
philosophick
eyes
:
And
such
are
yours
,
that
nature's
works
admire
With
warmth
like
that
,
which
they
themselves
inspire
.
To
such
how
fair
appears
each
grain
of
sand
,
Or
humblest
weed
,
as
wrought
by
nature's
hand
!
How
far
superior
to
all
human
pow'r
Springs
the
green
blade
,
or
buds
the
painted
flow'r
!
In
all
her
births
,
tho'
of
the
meanest
kinds
,
A
just
observer
entertainment
finds
,
With
fond
delight
her
low
productions
sees
,
And
how
she
gently
rises
by
degrees
;
A
shell
,
or
stone
he
can
with
pleasure
view
,
Hence
trace
her
noblest
works
,
the
heav'ns
—
and
you
.
Behold
how
bright
these
gaudy
trifles
shine
,
The
lovely
sportings
of
a
hand
divine
!
See
with
what
art
each
curious
shell
is
made
,
Here
carv'd
in
fret-work
,
there
with
pearl
inlaid
!
What
vivid
streaks
th'
enamel'd
stones
adorn
,
Fair
as
the
paintings
of
the
purple
morn
!
Yet
still
not
half
their
charms
can
reach
our
eyes
,
While
thus
confus'd
the
sparkling
Chaos
lies
;
Doubly
they'll
please
,
when
in
your
Grotto
plac'd
,
They
plainly
speak
the
fair
disposer's
taste
;
Then
glories
yet
unseen
shall
o'er
them
rise
,
New
order
from
your
hand
,
new
lustre
from
your
eyes
.
How
sweet
,
how
charming
will
appear
this
Grot
,
When
by
your
art
to
full
perfection
brought
!
Here
verdant
plants
,
and
blooming
flow'rs
will
grow
,
There
bubbling
currents
through
the
shell-work
flow
;
Here
coral
mix'd
with
shells
of
various
dies
,
There
polish'd
stone
will
charm
our
wond'ring
eyes
;
Delightful
bow'r
of
bliss
!
secure
retreat
!
Fit
for
the
Muses
,
and
STATIRA'S
seat
.
But
still
how
good
must
be
that
fair-one's
mind
,
Who
thus
in
solitude
can
pleasure
find
!
The
Muse
her
company
,
good-sense
her
guide
,
Resistless
charms
her
pow'r
,
but
not
her
pride
;
Who
thus
forsakes
the
town
,
the
park
,
and
play
,
In
silent
shades
to
pass
her
hours
away
;
Who
better
likes
to
breathe
fresh
country
air
,
Than
ride
imprison'd
in
a
velvet
chair
,
And
makes
the
warbling
nightingale
her
choice
,
Before
the
thrills
of
FARINELLI'S
voice
;
Prefers
her
books
,
and
conscience
void
of
ill
,
To
consorts
,
balls
,
assemblies
,
and
quadrille
:
Sweet
bow'rs
more
pleas'd
,
than
gilded
chariots
sees
,
For
groves
the
play-house
quits
,
and
beaus
for
trees
.
Blest
is
the
man
,
whom
heav'n
shall
grant
one
hour
With
such
a
lovely
nymph
,
in
such
a
lovely
bow'r
.