STUDLEY. TO MISS B— F—. Anonymous Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1136 K093079.003 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. III. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 231-236. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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STUDLEY . TO MISS B— F— . NOR Phoebus , nor his tuneful choir , To notes poetic wake my string : A mortal Muse demands my lyre , O , were she present while I sing ! To soar aloft , beyond the ken Of human eyes , let others boast : 'Tis BETSY that directs my pen ; My verse , not seen by her , were lost . No longer prate , ye critics vain , That poets are not made , but born : If BETSY smile upon the strain , Your censure's keenest lash I scorn . Yet were my creeping Muse to soar , Sure Reason's good might still be given : STUDLEY was Paradise before ; But BETSY's presence made it heaven . — O for a quill pluck'd from the eagle-wing Of bright Imagination , first of Powers ! Then might my earth-born Muse aspire to sing Strains not unworthy STUDLEY's charming bowers . Come , Nymph , and with thee , Memory , kind maid , The sweet remembrancer of pleasures past : How there with BETSY hand in hand I stray'd . Ay me , such pleasures were too great to last ! She comes , she comes ! enthron'd in F—'s eyes , She deigns to smile on such a wretch as me : Her fostering art its kindly aid supplies , And from gross film my visual nerve sets free . Conduct me , Goddess , to that blest retreat , In union fair , where all the Graces join ; Where Elegance has fix'd her best-lov'd seat , And Taste and Nature every power combine . And lo ! the Park first opens to the view ! Mark well its verdant hills , its flowery dells : Not Windsor-forest nobler scenes can shew ; Not Stowe , where Cobham dwelt , where Temple dwells . The curious eye , intranc'd in wonder , sees Here gurgling streamlets tremble thro' the shade ; Here nimble squirrels gambol in the trees , There bounding fawns trip wanton thro' the glade . Look back on Rippon's venerable pile ! There cloistered Monks their nightly vespers sung , While thro' the solemn , gloomy , Gothic aile , The hollow vaults responsive echoes rung . See slopes on slopes th' enchanting prospect bound , Nor knows the dubious Fancy where to rest : New sweets invite above , below , around ; Giddy with rapture , she scarce feels she's blest . The gates fly ope ! Elysium stands confest , And bursts upon us in a blaze of charms ; E'en such a transport throbs in Damon's breast , When yielding Chloe melts into his arms . No more , ye gaudy poets , deck with flowers Your fairy gardens on the Western shore , Or add fresh bloom to fam'd Alcinous' bowers ; Vain Greece , thy fabled Tempe boast no more . Whate'er creation form'd , or rules could frame , Refin'd or simple , natural or new , Compound together . Can it need a name ? View STUDLEY's lawns , and own the picture true . Where to begin ? where end ? the labouring soul , Lost and bewilder'd in a world of sweets , Vainly attempts at once to grasp the whole ; Such various joy its various senses greets . Ambrosial scents the ravish'd smell regale ; Each shrub around a balmy odour flings : Such as Arabia's spicy groves exhale , Wafted by Zephyrs on their rosy wings . The birds salute us with their artless notes , The bulfinch , linnet , nightingale , and thrush ; Wild harmony , strain'd thro' a thousand throats , Trills in each tree , and dies in every bush . Proud to adorn the pendent shades it laves , Seest thou that lake its heaving bosom swell ? In headlong sheets pour its enamour'd waves , Amidst such beauties well content to dwell ? But other waves to other waves succeed , Coursing each other to the seat they love ; With eager haste they glide along the mead , And murmuring struggle thro' the grot above . Retir'd from publick haunt one The Banqueting-house . structure stands , Sacred to Comus and his festive train ; Where genial Freedom unrestrain'd commands , Where none are strangers deem'd but Care and Pain . All elegance and ease , without , within , They bid defiance to the frowns of Fate ; Nor care what man goes out , or who comes in , Whirl'd in the topsy-turvy wheel of state . Climb we yon lofty summit , crown'd with wood , The quivering poplar , the wide-branching oak , The taper fir , the ash , for all things good . Long may they , long defy the woodman's stroke . Here rest we then — and each way turn our eyes ; No where our eyes an empty chasm can find ; Domes , temples , obelisks at each point arise ; We half forget the wonders left behind . Objects at every point our sight invade , Yet the keen judgment finds not where to chide : AISLABIE still calls Nature to his aid , Nor makes a sacrifice of sense to pride . But can we then that ruined , reverend Fountain's Abbey . tower , Leave undistinguish'd 'midst the common throng , There many a hoary devotee of yore Awak'd the sky-lark with his early song . What tho' the lazy bat and screech owl dire Reign sole possessors of the gloomy fane ? Souls once were there , in whom poetic fire Beat in each pulse , and glow'd in every vein . Observe its mouldering base and moss-grown head Threaten its final dissolution nigh ! To man what better lesson can be read ? What moralist can better teach to die ? Ah ! let us , ere the fatal die be cast , Think well ( for surely one day think we must ) That stately STUDLEY's pride must fall at last , And lovely BETSY's form submit to dust !