POEMS. 507 



Nor be the Parsonage by the muse forgot ; 

 The partial bard admires his native spot; 

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

 (Unconscious why) its scapes grotesque, and wild. 

 High on a mound the' 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 threatening 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 forests, 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. 



How fallen the glories of these fading scenes ! 

 The dusky beech resigns his vernal greens, 

 The yellow maple mourns in sickly hue, 

 And russet woodlands crowd the darkening view. 



