Consult the genius of the place in all; That tells the waters, or to rise or fall;

Or helps th' ambitious hill the heav'ns to scale,
Or scoops in circling theatres the vale;

Calls in the country, catches op'ning glades,
Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades!
Now breaks, or now directs, th' intending lines ;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.

Still follow sense, of ev'ry art the soul,
Parts answ❜ring parts shall slide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev❜n from difficulty, strike from chance;
Nature shall join you; time shall make it grow
A work to wonder at-perhaps a STOW.

Without it, proud Versailles! thy glory falls;
And Nero's terraces desert their walls:

бо

65

70

The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make,
Lo! COBHAM comes, and floats them with a lake:
Or cut wide views thro' mountains to the plain, 75
You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again.

Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,

Nor in an hermitage set Dr. Clarke.

Behold

VER. 70. The feat and gardens of the Marquis of Buckingham. VER. 75, 76. Or cut wide views thro' mountains to the plain, You'll wish your bill or shelter'd seat again.

This was done in Hertfordshire by a wealthy citizen, at the expence of above 5000l. by which means (merely to overlook a dead plain) he let in the north wind upon his house and parterre, which were before adorned and defended by beautiful woods.

Behold Villario's ten-years toil complete ; His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet;

The wood supports the plain, the parts unite,

80

And strength of shade contends with strength of light;
A waving glow the bloomy beds display,
Blushing in bright diversities of day,

With silver-quiv'ring rills meander'd o'er—
Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more:

Tir'd of the scene parterres and fountains yield,
He finds at last, he better likes a field.

85

Thro' his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus stray'd,
Or sat delighted in the thick'ning shade,
With annual joy the redd'ning shoots to greet,

Or see the stretching branches long to meet !
His son's fine taste an op'ning vista loves,
Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves;

go

One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views, 95
With all the mournful family of yews;

The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made,
Now

sweep those alleys they were born to shade. At Timon's villa let us pass a day,

Where all cry out, "What sums are thrown away!"

So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air,
Soft and agreeable come never there.

ΙΟΙ

Greatness

VER. 78. set Dr. Clarke.] Dr. S. Clarke's busto placed by the Queen in the Hermitage.

VER. 99. At Timon's villa] This description is intended to comprize the principles of a false taste of magnificence. The person intended was the Duke of Chandos.

12

Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
To compass this, his building is a town,

His pond an ocean, his parterre a down:
Who but must laugh, the master when he sees,
A puny insect, shiv'ring at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole, a labour'd quarry above ground.
Two Cupids squirt before: a lake behind
Improves the keenness of the northern wind.
His gardens next your admiration call,
On ev'ry side you look, behold the wall!
No pleasing intricacies intervene,
No artful wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suff'ring eye inverted nature sees,
Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;
With here a fountain, never to be play'd;
And there a summer-house, that knows no shade
Here Amphitrite sails thro' myrtle bow'rs;
There gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs;
Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.

My Lord advances with majestic mien,

Smit with the mighty pleasure, to be seen:
But soft-by regular approach-not yet-
First thro' the length of yon hot terrace sweat;

;

120

125

130 And

And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your

thighs,

Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes.

His study with what authors is it stor❜d?
In books, not authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round;
These Aldus printed, those Du Suëil has bound!
Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good,
For all his Lordship knows, but they are wood.
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look,
These shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the pride of pray'r :
Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,

135

140

Make the soul dance upon a jig to heav'n.

On painted cielings you devoutly stare,

145

Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre.

On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all paradise before your eye.
To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,
Who never mentions hell to ears polite.

But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall :
The rich buffet well-colour'd serpents grace,
And gaping tritons spew to wash your face.

150

Is

VER. 146. Verrio or Laguerre,] Verrio (Antonio) painted many cielings, &c. at Windsor, Hampton-Court, &c. and Laguerre at Blenheim-caftle, and other places.

Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb.

155

A solemn sacrifice, perform'd in state,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear
Sancho's dread doctor, and his wand were there.
Between each act the trembling salvers ring,
From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King.
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state,

And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,

Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,

161

165

Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;

I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,

And swear no day was ever pass'd so ill.

Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed;

Health to himself, and to his infants bread

17Q

The lab'rer bears: What his hard heart denies,

His charitable vanity supplies.

Another age shall see the golden ear

Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre,
Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.

175

Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil? Who plants like BATHURST, or who builds like BOYLE.

'Tis use alone that sanctifies expence,

And splendor borrows all her rays

from sense.

180

His father's acres who enjoys in peace,

Or makes his neighbours glad, if he encrease :