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Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain,
Here too, 'tis sung, of old Diana stray'd, 165
Above the rest a rural nymph was famed, Thy offspring, Thames; the fair Lodona named ; Lodona's fate, in long oblivion cast, The Muse shall sing, and what she sings shall last. Scarce could the goddess from her nymph be known,
175 But by the crescent and the golden zone. She scorn'd the praise of beauty, and the care; A belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair; A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds, And with her dart the flying deer she wounds. 180 It chanced, as eager of the chase, the maid Beyond the forest's verdant limits stray'd, Pan saw and loved ; and, burning with desire, Pursued her flight; her flight increased his fire. Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly, 185 When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;
172 The fair Lodona. This episode might have been more fortunate in another period, or in another country : it is too antique for the English taste, and too Grecian for the banks of the Thames. Pan also is a lover in whose passion we have not learned to sympathise.
Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves,
vain : "Ah, Cynthia! ah! though banish'd from thy train, Let me, 0, let me to the shades repair, 201 My native shades ; —there weep, and murmur
there.' She said, and melting as in tears she lay, In a soft silver stream dissolved away. The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps; For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps ; Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore, And bathes the forest where she ranged before. In her chaste current oft the goddess laves, And with celestial tears augments the waves : 210 Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spies The headlong mountains and the downward skies; The watery landscape of the pendent woods, And absent trees that tremble in the floods :
207 Still bears the name. The river Lodon.
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,
streams, Then foaming pour along, and rush into the
Thames. Thou, too, great father of the British floods ! With joyful pride survey'st our lofty woods; Where towering oaks their growing honors
rear, And future navies on thy shores appear. Not Neptune's self from all her streams receives A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives : No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear, No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear: Nor Po so swells the fabling poet's lays, While led along the skies his current strays, As thine, which visits Windsor's famed abodes, To grace the mansion of our earthly gods : 230 Nor all his stars above a lustre show, Like the bright beauties on thy banks below; Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still, Might change Olympus for a nobler hill. Happy the man whom this bright court approves,
235 His sovereign favors, and his country loves : Happy next him, who to these shades retires, Whom nature charms, and whom the Muse in
spires; Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please ; Successive study, exercise, and ease.
240 He gathers health from herbs the forest yields, And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields;
With chemic art exalts the mineral powers,
Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess,
851 To observe a mean. Warburton's loose recollection here gives Warton a triumph, of which he is never slow to avail himself. Warburton had ascribed the origin of the passage to Lucretius: his critic points it out in Lucan's
servare modum, finem que tenere,
Naturamque sequi, &c.-Book ii. 381. 265 On Cooper's-hill eternal wreaths shall grow. The prediction, unlike other prophecies, was farther from fulfilment the farther it advanced in years. The popularity of Cooper'shill has long decayed, without a hope of revival. Johnson
I seem through consecrated walks to rove;
270 Here his first lays majestic Denham sung; There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's
tongue. 0, early lost! what tears the river shed, When the sad pomp along his banks was led ! His drooping swans on every note expire, 275 And on his willows hung each Muse's lyre. Since fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly
voice, No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice; Who now shall charm the shades, where Cowley
strung His living harp, and lofty Denham sung? 280
gives Denham the fame of being at least the English inventor of local poetry.' But no people are less tolerant of description than the English, and the fame expired with the novelty.
912 Cowley's tongue. Cowley, disappointed with life, thought, like other disappointed solicitors of the world's favor, to escape its desires, by leaving it behind. His first determination was to put the Atlantic between him and his cares, and withdraw to America. It may be regretted that he did not fulfil this intention : the pictures of savage life, the struggles of rude civilisation, and the grandeur of nature yet untouched by the hand of man, might have been powerfully delineated by the poet and the philosopher. But Cowley was contented with scorning the world at a shorter distance: he took a house at Chertsey, where he died in 1667, of a boyish frolic, in his forty-ninth year. Cowley's life was imbittered by his political follies : idly attached to the Stuarts, whom no man ever trusted but to be betrayed, or served but to be neglected, he wasted the vigor of his days in bazards, which were repaid only with the cheap panegyric of Charles II.:-that'when Cowley died, he did not leave a better man behind him in England.'