Xvi 
THE INVITATION TO SELBORNE. 
Luxurious knights, ill suited to defy 
To mortal fight Turcéstan chivalry. 
Nor be the Parsonage by the muse forgot ; 
The partial bard admires his native spot 5 
Smit with its beauties, loved, as yet a child, 
(Unconscious why) its scapes grotesque, and wild. 
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 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, 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. 
