NEW LETTERS. 



THE INVITATION: TO SAMUEL BARKER. 



NE percuncteris, fundus meus, optime Quincti, 

 Arvo pascat herum, an baccis opulentet olivse, 

 Pomisne et pratis, an amicta vitibus ulmo : 

 Scribetur tibi forma loquaciter, et situs agri. 



See, Selborne spreads her boldest beauties round, 

 The vary'd valley, and the mountain-ground 

 Wildly majestic : what is all the pride 

 Of flats, with loads of ornament supply'd ? 

 Unpleasing, tasteless, impotent expence, 

 Compar'd with Nature's rude magnificence. 



Oft on some evening, sunny, soft, and still, 

 The Muse shall hand thee to the beech-grown hill, 

 To spend in tea the cool, refreshful hour, 

 Where nods in air the pensile, nest-like bower : 

 Or where the Hermit hangs his straw-clad cell, 

 Emerging gently from the leafy dell : 

 Romantic spot ! from whence in prospect lies 

 Whate'er of landscape charms our feasting eyes ; 

 The pointed spire, the hall, the pasture-plain, 

 The russet fallow, and the golden grain ; 

 The breezy lake that sheds a gleaming light, 

 'Til all the fading picture fails the sight. 



