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(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, But by the crescent and the golden zone.

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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.
It chanc'd, as eager of the chace, the maid
Beyond the forest's verdant limits stray'd,
Pan saw and lov'd, and burning with desire
Pursu'd her flight, her flight increas'd his fire.
Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly,
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;
Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves,

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When through the clouds he drives the trembling doves;

As from the God she flew with furious pace,

Or as the God, more furious, urg'd the chace. 190
Now fainting, sinking, pale, the nymph appears;
Now close behind, his sounding steps she hears;
And now his shadow reach'd her as she run,
His shadow lengthen'd by the setting sun;
And now his shorter breath, with sultry air,
Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.
In vain on father Thames she calls for aid,
Nor could Diana help her injur’d maid.

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Faint, breathless, thus she pray'd, nor pray'd in vain; "Ah Cynthia! ah-tho' banish'd from thy train,

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"Let me, O let me, to the shades repair,

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"My native shades-there weep, and murmur there." She said, and melting as in tears she lay,

In a soft, silver stream dissolv'd away.

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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 rang'd before.
In her chaste current oft the Goddess laves,
And with celestial tears augments the waves.
Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spies
The headlong mountains and the downward skies.
The wat❜ry landskip of the pendant woods,
And absent trees that tremble in the floods;
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,
And floating forests paint the waves with green,
Through the fair scene roll slow the ling'ring 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 tow'ring oaks their growing honours 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,

VER. 207. Still bears the name] The River Lodon.

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As thine, which visits Windsor's fam'd abodes,

To grace the mansion of our earthly Gods:
Nor all his stars above a lustre show,

Like the bright beauties on thy banks below;
Where Jove, subdu'd by mortal passion still,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.

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Happy the man whom this bright Court approves, His Sov'reign favours, and his country loves : Happy next him, who to these shades retires,

Whom Nature charms, and whom the Muse inspires:
Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please,
Successive study, exercise, and ease.

He gathers health from herbs the forest yields,
And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields:
With chemic art exalts the min'ral pow'rs,

And draws the aromatic souls of flow'rs:

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Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high; 245
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 the 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,

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Survey the region, and confess her home!

Such

Such was the life great Scipio once admir'd,
Thus Atticus, and TRUMBAL 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 :

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Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade,

By god-like 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.

Since fate relentless stop'd their heav'nly voice,

No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice;

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Who now shall charm the shades, where COWLEY

strung

His living harp, and lofty DENHAM sung?
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;

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To

To paint anew the flow'ry sylvan scenes,
To crown the forests 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.
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:
Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then fill'd the groves, as heav'nly Mira now.

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Oh would'st 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

VER. 282.] The Mira of Granville was the Countess of Newburgh. Towards the end of her life Dr. King, of Oxford, wrote a very severe satire against her. in three books, 4to. called The Toast.

VER. 291. Here noble Surrey] Henry Howard Earl of Surrey, one of the first refiners of the English poetry; who flourished in the time of Henry VIII.

VER. 297. Fair Geraldine] The Fair Geraldine, the general object of Lord Surrey's passionate sonnets, was one of the daughters of Gerald, Earl of Kildare, but the whole story is a romance.

VER. 303. Edward's acts] Edward III. born here.

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