The mimic isle that blushes not to own

Her parent art, which rear'd the moss-clad stone,

The waving ash that crowns her rocky brow,
And sheds her vermeil-cluster'd locks below,
The briery copse-the hill that steals between-
How dear to meditation is the scene!

But chief the gloom of yon sequester'd dell
Deep as the fabled haunts where Dryads dwell,
Invites to thought: by many a mazy turn
Steep winds the path to it's remotest bourn,
The centre of the groves; where nought invades
The still unbroken twilight of the shades,

Save the cool whisper of the tumbling rill
Which from the shelvy side of yon hoar hill
Now caught, now lost amid th' obtruding leaves,
Foams down the craggy channel which it cleaves,
Then thro' the vale with mitigated force
Glides unperceived forgetful of it's source;
As one by ceaseless persecution worn,
Beset with ills, yet proof to fortune's scorn

Greatly retires, collected and resign'd,
Nor casts one look of self-reproach behind.

Roll, gentle Naiad, roll thy stream secure, The taintless emblem of a soul as pure; And, ever as it flows, in duty say,

Whose hand entic'd thy vagrant tide to stray Wide of it's wonted bed, and proudly pour Down the tall cliff, thy boundary before? Who o'er thy banks in wild luxuriance gave Those pendent boughs to wanton in thy wave, And with the magic of inventive taste

Redeemed this fair creation from the waste?

Nay, let the pious bard with pride confess Himself indebted to that hand no less, That fostering hand that beautified the glade, Prun'd into shape and thicken'd into shade, Vouchsaf'd alike his shapeless youth to mould, And guard it's blossoms from the blasting cold, By virtue's rules it's moral growth defin'd, And purg'd from vice the canker of the mind.

Yes, let the careless eye contented trace,
Nor search beyond the glare of outward grace;
There's not a charm, these pensive walks impart,
But speaks some useful lesson to the heart,
More deeply grav'd, more eloquently told,
Than aught in philosophic page enroll❜d.
For who yon smiling hamlet can survey,

The rising farm new-rescu'd from decay,
The church-way path repair'd, the warm clad poor,
The garden fence that skirts the cottage door,
Where now the widow'd dame forgets her tears,
And gives to prayer the remnant of her years—
Who can unmov'd survey? what breast so dark
But at the sight would catch a kindred spark,
"Till rous'd and bursting into brighter fires
It glows, it burns to be what it admires ?
Or who, that treads these venerable groves,
Feels not an honest transport as he roves,
And in these domes reveres, but yet bewails.
The mute retreat that powerless virtue veils?
Where toil reposing, wakes to woe no more,
And self-rewarded spares the public store.-

Ye powers of freedom, whom my soul adores, Pride, Honour, Faith-that once these haughty shores Arm'd and embellish'd, let it not be told

From patriot claims that Britain could withhold

The hard-earn'd wages of successful pains

Borne for her sake; then plunder'd of their gains;
That chas'd to private shades by factious hate
Hastings unhonour'd shar'd a Scipio's fate;
And left, like him, in characters as just,
"Ungrateful country"* carv'd upon his bust-
It must not be-hence inauspicious thought!
Thus hope prophetic sets despair at nought.

"Genius of Daylesford-friend to worth deprest, Where science adds a dignity to rest, Where grace and sage morality combine,

Still shall their due prerogatives be thine':

* In allusion to a bust of Mr. Hastings, in the possession of the Marquis of Lansdowne, inscribed after the manner of the tomb of Scipio Africanus, with these words, " Ingrata Patria."

VALER. MAX.

Still shalt thou rise; and fair betide that hour, Which gilds thy shades with glory, rank, and power,

Too long o'ercast, thy dim horizon clears,

Pours on the plains, and all the landscape cheers; Flowers of unfading bloom thy banks attire,

Thy porches swell, thy pinnacles aspire,

And beams of mild benevolence afar

More widely blaze from thine ascendant star."

Enough-For injur'd innocence to plead,

To point to merit and assert the meed,
To wail, or deprecate a nation's shame,
Which e'en redress so late can scarce reclaim,
Daylesford, thy shades inspire-to thee belong
No partial bard, no mercenary song,

No Muse who blushes to recount thy praise,

For truth and friendship justify the lays.