High on a mound th' 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, shelter'd, 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 B****S. 



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 beach resigns his vernal greens ; 

 The yellow maple mourns in sickly hue, 

 And russet woodlands crowd the dark'ning view. 



Dim, clust'ring fogs involve the country round, 

 The valley and the blended mountain ground 

 Sink in confusion ; but with tempest-wing 

 Should Boreas from his northern barrier spring, 

 The rushing woods with deaf 'ning clamour roar, 

 Like the sea tumbling on the pebbly shore. 

 When spouting rains descend in torrent tides, 

 See the torn zigzag weep its channel'd sides : 

 Winter exerts its rage ; heavy and slow, 

 From the keen east rolls on the treasured snow ; 

 Sunk with its weight the bending boughs are seen, 

 And one bright deluge whelms the works of men. 



