The Natural History of Selborne 509 



When western climes, urgd on by Pope and priest, 



Pour'd forth their millions o'er the deluged East : 



Luxurious knights, ill suited to defy 



To mortal fight Turce'sfan chivalry. 



Nor be the Parsonage by the muse forgot; 



The partial bard admires his native spot; 



Smit ivith its beauties, loved, as yet a child, 



( Unconscious why) its scapes grotesque, and wild. 



High on a mound th 1 exalted gardens stand, 



Beneath, deep valleys scoop'd by Nature's hand. 



A Cobham here, exulting in his art, 



Might blend the General's with the Gardener's part; 



Might fortify with all the martial trade 



Of rampart, bastion, fosse, and palisade; 



Might plant the mortar with wide threat 'ning bore, 



Or bid the mimic cannon seem to roar. 



Now climb the steep, drop now your eye below, 

 Where round the blooming village orchards grow; 

 There, like a picture, lies my lowly seat, 

 A rural, sheltered, unobserved retreat. 



Me far above the rest Selbornian scenes, 

 The pendent forest, and the mountain-greens, 

 Strike with delight ; there spreads the distant view, 

 That gradual fades till sunk in misty blue : 

 Here Nature hangs her slopy woods to sight, 

 Rills purl between, and dart a quivering light. 



Selborne Hanger. 



A Winter Piece. 

 To the Miss Batties. 



The Bard, who sang so late in blithest strain 

 Selbornian prospects, and the rural reign, 

 Now suits his plaintive pipe to sadden'd tone, 

 While the blank swains the changeful year bemoan. 



