KIMBOLTON
PARK
.
BY
THE
MR.
H—
.
THY
Park
,
Kimbolton
!
and
surrounding
shade
,
For
rural
love
and
contemplation
made
,
Invite
my
song
.
Ye
Sylvans
!
haunt
your
bowers
!
Waft
round
your
sweets
!
and
open
all
your
flowers
!
And
thou
,
who
shut'st
not
to
the
suppliant's
prayer
,
Nor
to
the
aid-imploring
voice
thine
ear
,
Do
thou
,
O
MANCHESTER
!
protect
the
song
;
The
Muse's
care
does
to
the
learn'd
belong
:
Grateful
alike
Muse
,
Subject
,
Author
,
bow
,
And
hail
the
source
whence
all
their
pleasures
flow
.
These
plains
that
annual
pour
their
sweets
for
thee
,
(
Thanks
to
thy
bounty
)
yield
a
part
to
me
:
And
Ease
,
fair
Virtue's
,
and
the
Poet's
friend
,
Thro'
your
indulgence
,
on
my
steps
attend
.
Impervious
to
the
sun's
most
potent
ray
Yon
lofty
elms
their
arched
heads
display
;
From
far
the
traveller
sees
their
summit
rise
,
Scarce
half
distinguish'd
from
the
neighbouring
skies
;
But
oft
surveying
as
he
onward
goes
,
Greener
and
fairer
still
the
object
grows
;
Till
underneath
their
shade
,
at
ease
reclin'd
,
He
leaves
the
labour
of
the
day
behind
;
Soft
breezes
cool
him
from
surrounding
bowers
,
And
Nature
bland
her
gay
profusion
pours
.
So
they
who
dauntless
plow
the
dangerous
main
,
(
What
will
not
daring
man
attempt
for
gain
?
)
At
early
dawn
,
from
top-mast-head
espy
A
rising
vapour
in
the
bordering
sky
;
Ere
day's
mid
course
,
that
vapour
oft
they
find
A
royal
navy
,
hovering
in
the
wind
:
Yards
,
sails
,
and
streamers
crowd
the
whispering
air
,
And
all
the
glories
of
the
deep
appear
.
Nor
less
impervious
that
extended
shade
By
reverend
oaks
,
the
growth
of
ages
,
made
;
Save
where
wide
avenues
that
shade
divide
,
And
shew
the
woodland
in
its
utmost
pride
.
Here
let
the
huntsman
wind
the
echoing
horn
,
Cheer
his
swift
steed
,
and
wake
the
rosy
morn
;
Let
dogs
and
men
in
noisy
concert
join
,
And
sportsmen
call
the
harmony
divine
:
The
Muse
delights
not
,
fond
of
pensive
ease
,
In
dissipation
,
or
pursuits
like
these
.
And
thou
,
sweet
Thrush
!
prolong
thy
amorous
tale
,
Let
thy
love-burthen'd
song
delight
the
vale
!
No
leaden
death
I
bring
,
no
toils
for
thee
,
Sing
on
,
and
soothe
thy
feather'd
progeny
.
Come
!
peaceful
Precepts
!
of
the
Samian
Sage
,
Unbend
the
bow
,
and
curb
an
iron
age
!
Whatever
laws
short-sighted
man
may
make
,
Who
cannot
give
,
can
have
no
power
to
take
:
He
,
and
he
only
,
who
could
life
bestow
,
May
call
his
blessing
from
the
realms
below
.
Let
shaggy
bears
,
that
prowl
Moscovia's
shore
,
Stain
their
fierce
claws
,
or
dip
their
tongue
in
gore
;
This
does
not
equal
human
beasts
of
prey
,
What
they
for
hunger
,
we
for
pleasure
slay
:
Nor
is
this
thirst
of
blood
to
man
confin'd
;
See
S—
a
savage
of
the
fairer
kind
!
Pardon
me
,
You
!
whose
nobler
tears
can
flow
For
aught
that
suffers
misery
below
;
Who
shrink
to
rob
the
insect
of
its
hour
,
Or
bruise
its
offspring
in
the
opening
flower
:
Your
form
,
your
fears
were
by
great
Heaven
design'd
At
once
to
charm
and
humanize
mankind
.
When
Nature
fair
from
her
Creator
sprung
,
And
wondering
angels
hallelujahs
sung
,
The
sylvan
scene
,
blest
seat
!
to
man
was
given
,
The
richest
bounty
of
indulgent
Heaven
.
To
Peace
then
sacred
be
the
shady
grove
!
Be
there
no
murmurs
heard
—
but
those
of
love
:
Love
,
fled
from
noise
and
cities
,
haunts
the
glade
,
The
falling
fountains
,
and
the
silent
shade
,
Inspires
each
warbling
songster
in
the
bower
,
Breathes
in
each
gale
,
and
blossoms
in
each
flower
.
When
every
object
thus
their
charms
combine
,
What
bosom
can
resist
the
power
divine
?
Too
feeble
that
,
which
now
the
Muse
inspires
,
And
,
with
her
own
,
admits
still
warmer
fires
.
Here
,
here
I
felt
the
soft
infection
rise
,
Pant
at
the
breast
,
and
languish
in
the
eyes
,
When
Mira
to
my
humble
cot
was
led
,
Love's
willing
victim
,
to
an
husband's
bed
;
And
now
still
feel
,
in
smoother
channels
,
run
Those
streams
,
that
rapid
passion
first
begun
:
Esteem
,
affection
,
friendship
ne'er
decline
:
Nor
are
her
virtues
less
for
being
mine
.
Let
Rome
her
fetter'd
monks
to
cells
withdraw
,
And
force
her
own
against
great
Nature's
law
:
Drag
blooming
virgins
useless
from
mankind
,
And
give
to
lust
,
what
was
for
love
design'd
:
'Tis
mine
to
tread
on
Albion's
blissful
shore
,
Where
sinful
celibacy
binds
no
more
.
Now
sultry
Phoebus
,
far
from
Thetis'
bed
Darts
his
fierce
rays
resistless
o'er
my
head
.
Slow
thro'
you
walk
oft-winding
let
me
rove
,
And
wander
deep
within
the
silent
grove
!
Or
,
if
too
potent
there
his
beams
invade
,
O
!
let
me
tread
those
limes
more
cooling
shade
!
That
shade
which
shall
your
kind
protection
gain
,
And
Brown
himself
provoke
the
axe
in
vain
.
In
milder
climes
,
and
blest
with
cloudless
skies
,
Let
slender
domes
on
hills
unshelter'd
rise
,
Where
constant
seasons
glad
the
neighbouring
plains
,
And
Phoebus
holds
,
not
Phaëton
,
the
reins
.
But
where
loud
waves
oft
vex
the
sea-girt
shore
,
And
sudden
tempests
,
unexpected
,
roar
:
Where
rough
December
,
envious
of
her
power
,
From
gentle
May
oft
plucks
the
tender
flower
:
Where
clearest
morn
to
cloudy
noon
gives
way
,
And
stormy
eve
excludes
the
hopeful
day
:
Where
o'er
the
vast
Atlantic
vapours
roll
,
Or
frozen
sogs
dark
issue
from
the
pole
,
There
the
firm
building
asks
the
planter's
aid
,
"
From
storms
a
shelter
,
and
from
heat
a
shade
.
"
In
gardening
great
th'
improvement
of
the
age
,
Clipt
yews
,
cut
out
in
Magogs
,
quit
the
stage
;
Half
murder'd
hollies
meet
with
one
wound
more
,
And
clasping
ivy
leaves
the
loaded
door
.
But
yet
the
axe
may
drive
the
edge
too
far
:
Brown
not
with
Nature
,
yet
with
climes
may
war
:
Use
or
convenience
oft
put
in
their
claim
,
"
And
rise
to
faults
good
judges
dare
not
blame
;
"
Nor
can
true
taste
and
elegance
reside
Where
order
and
gradation
are
deny'd
.
By
walls
immur'd
,
or
lost
within
a
wood
The
cloister'd
mansions
of
our
fathers
stood
:
They
sought
protection
from
the
dog-star's
heat
,
And
heard
,
tho'
felt
not
,
the
rude
tempest
beat
:
But
damps
pervaded
oft
the
gloomy
hall
,
And
green-grown
mould
defac'd
the
'scutcheon'd
wall
.
Fond
of
extremes
(
and
wiser
sure
than
they
!
)
We
drive
walls
,
trees
,
damps
,
arms
,
and
all
away
:
Yield
still
too
far
to
every
thing
that's
new
,
Nor
dare
to
keep
the
golden
mean
in
view
.
But
see
!
the
sun
the
steep
of
heaven
descends
,
And
yon
kind
cloud
her
golden
curtain
lends
:
Let
me
,
ye
Walks
!
your
flowery
maze
pursue
,
And
on
one
plain
the
world's
whole
tribute
view
.
That
tribute
,
Commerce
,
which
we
owe
to
thee
,
As
thou
we
owe
to
godlike
Liberty
.
Here
spicy
shrubs
,
the
growth
of
Afric
,
bloom
,
And
ancient
Asia
breathes
her
sweet
perfume
:
Columbean
wilds
their
later
treasures
yield
,
And
British
roses
crown
the
flowery
field
.
AUTHOR
OF
GOOD
!
how
are
thy
blessings
shed
!
On
man's
,
on
thereby
man's
,
much
honour'd
head
!
From
glowing
India
to
the
frozen
pole
,
Thy
Providence
supplies
,
protects
the
whole
:
Nor
are
thy
gifts
at
random
thrown
abroad
,
Or
undistinguish'd
carelesly
bestow'd
;
For
,
whilst
the
whole
in
general
blessings
share
,
Each
part
partakes
thy
more
peculiar
care
:
Yon
spreading
fig
,
that
first
from
India
came
,
Stretch'd
broad
her
leaves
to
cool
the
sun-burnt
dame
:
Soft
cypress
rises
on
the
Paphian
plain
,
To
soothe
the
grief
of
some
forsaken
swain
:
In
cold
Norwegia
lofty
pines
arise
,
A
kind
protection
from
the
northern
skies
:
And
various
realms
this
one
grand
truth
declare
,
Who
feels
th'
extremes
of
Nature
,
feels
her
care
:
Ev'n
winter
stern
,
and
angry
tempests
bring
Their
secret
treasures
to
the
fruitful
spring
;
Pour
fostering
stores
into
the
weary
earth
,
And
call
more
gay
reviving
Nature
forth
.
Hail
!
youthful
season
!
health-restoring
Power
!
That
chear'st
the
waste
,
and
cloath'st
the
roseat
bower
,
That
bid'st
gay
Nature
all
her
sweets
display
,
And
on
benighted
nations
pour
the
day
:
For
thee
the
roses
bloom
,
the
violets
spread
,
And
yellow
cowslips
rear
their
bended
head
:
Brisk
thro'
the
thicket
trips
the
spotted
fawn
,
And
sportive
lambs
bound
wanton
on
the
lawn
:
Those
oaks
,
the
future
sovereigns
of
the
sea
,
Stretch
wide
their
boughs
,
and
clothe
their
heads
for
thee
.
Bloom
fresh
,
ye
sacred
Guardians
of
our
isle
!
War's
rage
is
o'er
,
and
Peace
now
deigns
to
smile
:
Here
stand
the
graceful
monarchs
of
the
wood
,
Nor
unprovok'd
attempt
the
swelling
flood
:
Remain
secure
as
erst
when
Druids
made
Their
songs
divine
beneath
your
reverend
shade
:
But
soon
as
jarring
nations
,
faithless
grown
,
Enrich'd
with
trade
and
commerce
not
their
own
,
Shall
basely
strive
those
honours
to
obtain
By
meanest
arts
,
which
courage
sought
in
vain
,
Then
,
then
indignant
quit
the
fertile
shore
,
And
bid
the
deep
assist
your
thunder's
roar
.
When
hapless
England
felt
a
tyrant's
sway
,
And
that
fierce
tyrant
fell
to
lust
a
prey
,
Here
,
fill'd
with
grief
,
an
injur'd
princess
Catherine
of
Spain
,
during
the
latter
part
of
the
time
of
the
divorce
,
retired
to
Kimbolton
Castle
,
where
she
died
(
it
is
supposed
)
of
grief
for
the
cruel
treatment
she
received
from
Henry
VIII
.
fled
From
short-liv'd
grandeur
,
and
divided
bed
:
Oppression
spread
her
horrors
o'er
the
plain
,
And
all
thy
sweets
,
Kimbolton
!
bloom'd
in
vain
.
For
not
the
fragrant
breath
of
rosy
morn
,
Nor
tuneful
lark
on
rising
pinions
borne
,
Nor
all
the
verdure
of
the
blooming
spiring
,
Can
to
the
broken
heart
lost
pleasure
bring
.
In
England
then
the
sons
of
Freedom
slept
,
And
drooping
Virtue
o'er
their
ashes
wept
:
In
vain
for
right
the
royal
stranger
cry'd
,
That
right
his
slaves
enjoy'd
her
lord
deny'd
:
Yon
inmost
grove
oft
heard
her
mournful
tale
,
Her
sorrows
spread
along
this
silent
vale
;
Till
Fate
in
pity
call'd
her
to
the
shore
,
Where
lust
and
tyranny
oppress
no
more
.
Thrice
happy
change
!
where
royal
virtue
griev'd
,
The
aged
and
the
orphan
are
reliev'd
;
And
thankful
widows
crowd
the
open'd
door
,
Where
weeping
majesty
complain'd
before
.
O
Britons
!
(
if
to
pagan
powers
ye
bow
)
Be
smiling
Liberty
ador'd
by
you
!
Where
mad
Oppression
waves
her
iron
wand
,
There
Truth
and
Justice
quit
the
wasted
land
:
But
where
the
people
feel
a
father's
sway
,
(
As
Rome
felt
once
,
and
Britain
feels
to-day
)
There
Justice
equal
with
the
Sovereign
reigns
,
And
peace
and
plenty
glads
the
smiling
plains
.
When
they
,
who
govern
with
the
govern'd
join
,
And
,
without
faction
,
all
their
force
combine
;
Not
the
loud
cannon
,
nor
the
ocean's
roar
,
That
beats
with
angry
waves
the
sounding
shore
,
Can
crush
contending
hosts
,
or
awe
them
more
.
Those
laurels
,
Granby
!
that
adorn
thy
brow
,
Far
from
the
muddy
fount
of
faction
grew
;
Fair
Union
gently
rear'd
the
parent
tree
,
That
stretch'd
so
wide
her
boughs
for
Hawke
and
thee
.
And
thus
united
,
subject
of
my
lays
!
Thy
sons
,
Kimbolton
!
claim'd
the
patriot's
praise
,
Who
left
their
fields
to
guard
the
the
threat'ned
shore
,
Ere
Eliot
fought
and
Thurot
was
no
more
.
And
tho'
no
annals
to
their
race
shall
tell
,
What
numbers
vanquish'd
by
their
valour
fell
;
The
soul
resolv'd
that
waited
firm
the
foe
,
And
in
his
bosom
brav'd
th'
impending
blow
,
Or
conquer'd
for
his
native
fields
,
or
bled
,
Tho'
no
green
laurels
shade
his
honour'd
head
.
But
lo
!
my
Muse
!
the
humid
drops
descend
,
And
parting
shepherds
to
the
hamlets
tend
,
O
!
quit
the
task
those
beauties
to
display
,
That
fairer
spring
with
each
returning
day
!
So
Reynolds
thus
,
presuming
on
his
art
,
To
trace
those
charms
,
my
Lord
!
that
win
your
heart
,
Sees
softer
smiles
whene'er
he
lifts
his
eye
,
That
bid
him
throw
his
baffled
pencil
by
.