9 See the green space; on either hand Enlarged it spreads around: See, in the midst she takes her stand, Where one old oak his awful shade Extends o'er half the level mead Enclosed in woods profound.
10 Hark, through many a melting note She now prolongs her lays: How sweetly down the void they float! The breeze their magic path attends, The stars shine out, the forest bends, The wakeful heifers gaze.
11 Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bring To this sequester'd spot, If then the plaintive Syren sing, Oh! softly tread beneath her bower, And think of heaven's disposing power, Of man's uncertain lot.
12 Oh! think, o'er all this mortal stage, What mournful scenes arise: What ruin waits on kingly rage, How often virtue dwells with woe, How many griefs from knowledge flow, How swiftly pleasure flies.
13 O sacred bird, let me at eve, Thus wandering all alone, Thy tender counsel oft receive, Bear witness to thy pensive airs, And pity Nature's common cares, Till I forget my own.
1 With sordid floods the wintry Urn [1] Hath stain'd fair Richmond's level green; Her naked hill the Dryads mourn, No longer a poetic scene. No longer there the raptured eye The beauteous forms of earth or sky Surveys as in their Author's mind; And London shelters from the year Those whom thy social hours to share The Attic Muse design'd.
2 From Hampstead's airy summit me Her guest the city shall behold, What day the people's stern decree To unbelieving kings is told, When common men (the dread of fame) Adjudged as one of evil name, Before the sun, the anointed head. Then seek thou too the pious town, With no unworthy cares to crown That evening's awful shade.
3 Deem not I call thee to deplore The sacred martyr of the day, By fast, and penitential lore To purge our ancient guilt away. For this, on humble faith I rest That still our advocate, the priest, From heavenly wrath will save the land; Nor ask what rites our pardon gain, Nor how his potent sounds restrain The thunderer's lifted hand.
4 No, Hardinge; peace to church and state! That evening, let the Muse give law; While I anew the theme relate Which my first youth enamour'd saw. Then will I oft explore thy thought, What to reject which Locke hath taught, What to pursue in Virgil's lay; Till hope ascends to loftiest things, Nor envies demagogues or kings Their frail and vulgar sway.