NEW LETTERS. 
THE INVITATION : TO SAMUEL BAEKEE. 
Ne percuiicteris, fundus meus, optime Quiucti, 
Arvo pascat hemm, an baccis opulentet olivie, 
Poniisne et pratis, an amicta vitibus nlmo : 
Scribetur tibi forma loquaciter, et situs agri. 
See, Selborne spreads lier 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, 
AVhere nods in air the pensile, nest-like bower : 
Or where the Hermit hangs his straw-clad cell, 
Emerging gently from the leafy dell : 
Eomantic 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. 
