To
Mrs.
Jacob
,
On
her
Seat
called
,
The
Rocks
,
in
Gloucestershire
.
At
easy
Distance
from
the
Town
,
An
hospitable
Seat
From
Crowd
and
Noise
there
stands
retir'd
,
A
sweet
and
cool
Retreat
;
Securely
seated
on
a
Rock
,
Whence
silver
Streams
descend
,
From
Cliffs
the
Ruins
of
old
Time
,
And
murmur
as
they
bend
.
The
antient
Honours
of
the
Wood
Adorn
and
guard
the
Pile
;
At
humble
Distance
down
it
sees
The
fruitful
Vallies
smile
.
Here
Woods
and
Shades
,
and
Grots
and
Glades
,
Feel
sultry
Summer
mild
;
Diversify'd
a
thousand
Ways
,
And
beautifully
wild
.
When
we
,
amidst
the
Shades
below
,
From
the
steep
Hill
descend
,
Where
crystal
Streams
in
Mazes
flow
,
That
tow'ring
Elms
defend
;
Like
Pluto's
Regions
wrapt
in
Gloom
We
think
the
darksome
Way
,
That
ends
in
the
Elysian
Plains
,
Fair
,
flow'ry
,
calm
,
and
gay
.
Romantic
Views
these
Prospects
yield
,
That
feed
poetic
Fire
;
Each
broken
Rock
,
and
Cave
,
and
Field
,
And
Hill
,
and
Vale
,
inspire
.
These
various
,
gay
,
delightful
Scenes
,
Like
Paradise
appear
;
Serene
as
ev'ning
Sky
my
Soul
,
And
hush'd
is
ev'ry
Care
.
A
thousand
Birds
soft
warbling
join
The
Music
of
the
Trees
;
Whose
waving
Boughs
and
whisp'ring
Leaves
,
Play
wanton
in
the
Breeze
.
The
happy
Genius
of
the
Place
,
Inspire
with
softest
Joys
;
And
Contemplation
pure
as
Light
,
My
rap'tur'd
Soul
employs
.
Within
the
Gates
new
Scenes
arise
,
Which
equal
Joys
disclose
;
There
Beauty
,
Goodness
,
Friendship
smiles
,
And
gen'rous
Plenty
flows
.