Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high ;
O'er figur'd worlds now travels with his eye;
Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store,
Consults the dead, and lives past ages o'er :
Or wand'ring thoughtful in a silent wood,
Attends the duties of the wise and good,
T'observe a mean, be to himself a friend,
To follow Nature, and regard his end;

Or looks on heav'n with more than mortal eyes,
Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confess her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admir'd,
Thus Atticus, and Trumball thus retir'd.

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Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess, Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless, Bear me, oh bear me to sequester'd scenes, The bow'ry mazes, and surrounding greens; To Thames's banks, which fragrant breezes fill, Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper's Hill. (On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow, While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow.) I seem through consecrated walks to rove,

I hear soft music die along the grove :

Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade,
By godlike poets venerable made:

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Here his first lays majestic Denham sung;

There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue,
O early lost! what tears the river shed,
When the sad pomp along his banks was led!
His drooping swans on ev'ry note expire,

And on his willows hung each muse's lyre.

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Since Fate relentless stopp'd their heav'nly 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?

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But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings!
Are these reviv’d, or is it Granville sings?
'Tis yours, my lord, to bless our soft retreats,
And call the Muses to their ancient seats;
To paint anew the flow'ry sylvan scenes,
To crown the forest with immortal greens;
Make Windsor hills in lofty numbers rise,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
To sing those honours you deserve to wear,
And add new lustre to her silver star.

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Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage, Surrey, the Granville of a former age: Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance, Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance : In the same shades the Cupids tun'd his lyre, To the same notes, of love, and soft desire:

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Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then fill'd the groves, as heav'nly Mira now.
Oh wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore,
What kings first breath'd upon her winding shore,
Or raise old warriors, whose ador'd remains
In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains!
With Edward's acts adorn the shining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down through ev'ry age,
Draw monarchs chain'd, and Cressy's glorious field,
The lilies blazing on the regal shield:
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Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall,

Still in thy song should vanquish'd France appear,
And bleed for ever under Britain's spear.

Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn,

And palms eternal flourish round his urn.
Here o'er the martyr-king the marble weeps,
And, fast beside him, once fear'd Edward sleeps;
Whom not th' extended Albion could contain,

From old Belerium to the northern main.

The grave unites; where e'en the great find rest, And blended lie th' oppressor and th' opprest!

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Make sacred Charles's tomb for ever known, (Obscure the place, and uninscrib'd the stone.) 320 Oh fact accurs'd! what tears has Albion shed! Heav'ns! what new wounds! and how her old have . bled!

She saw her sons with purple death expire,
Her sacred domes involv'd in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of intestine wars,
Inglorious triumphs, and dishonest scars.

At length great Anna said, "Let discord cease!"
She said; the world obey'd, and all was peace!

In that blest moment from his oozy bed

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Old father Thames advanc'd his rev'rend head; 330
His tresses dropp'd with dews, and o'er the stream
His shining horns diffus'd a golden gleam:
Grav'd on his urn appear'd the moon, that guides
His swelling waters, and alternate tides;

The figur'd streams in waves of silver roll'd,
And on her banks Augusta rose in gold.
Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood,
Who swell with tributary urns his flood:
First the fam'd authors of his ancient name,

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The winding Isis, and the fruitful Thame :

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The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown'd;

The Lodden slow, with verdant alders crown'd;
Cole, whose dark streams his flow'ry islands lave;
And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave:
The blue, transparent Vandilas appears;
The gulphy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;

And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;

And silent Darent, stain'd with Danish Blood.

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High in the midst, upon his urn reclin’d, (His sea-green mantle waving with the wind,) The god appear'd: he turn'd his azure eyes Where Windsor's domes and pompous turrets rise; Then bow'd and spoke; the winds forget to roar, And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore. Hail, sacred peace! hail, long expected days, 355 That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise! Though Tyber's streams immortal Rome behold, Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold, From heav'n itself though sevenfold Nilus flows, And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; These now no more shall be the Muse's themes, Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams. Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine, And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine, Let barb'rous Ganges arm a servile train; Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign. No more my sons shall dye with British blood Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood: Safe on my shore each unmolested swain

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Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain; 370 The shady empire shall retain no trace

Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chace;

The trumpet sleep, while cheerful horns are blown, And arms employ'd on birds and beasts alone.