Written In A Seat At Stoke Park,

Not with more joy from the loud tempest's roar,
The dangerous billow, and more dangerous shore,
Escap'd,—the wave-worn sailor's grateful hand
Grasps the dear refuge of his native land;
Than I from proud Augusta's walls retreat,
To the dear refuge of that humble seat.
Though lowly be the roof, can I demand
The loftiest mansion grandeur ever plann'd,
When yon fair dome, magnificently great,
Opes wide to me its hospitable gate;
When these bright scenes, in rural grace array'd,
Invite my footsteps to their friendly shade?
Here, while once more my raptur'd fancy woos,
Far from tumultuous din, the sylvan Muse;
Or when the day-star hides his radiant light,
In calm and peaceful sleep I wear the night;
How does my bosom turn with keen disgust
From those foul paths of plunder and of lust;
Where the stern ministers of rigid law
With iron scourge the harden'd ruffian awe;
Where fear alone can blunt fell murder's knife,
And gaols and gibbets watch o'er human life.

As o'er yon silver lake I throw my sight,
Beyond imperial Windsor's tower-crown'd height,
Where, in the softening tint of heavenly blue,
Thy distant uplands, Berkshire! bless my view:
In waking dreams my fancy wings her flight,
Delightful region! to thy western site,
Where Isis' waves divide thy rural reign
From the green borders of Oxonia's plain;
And gently rising from the vale below,
Rears lovely Faringdon her breezy brow.
There the mild code of Albion's legal sway,
I whilom saw a generous race obey;
Saw the free yeoman and the sturdy swain,
Guided, not gall'd, by influence' lenient rein;
Not to the magistrate's stern mandate bend,
But feel the judge still temper'd by the friend.

Why, driven by wild ambition's veering gale,
Why did I quit, alas! my native vale,
'Mid senates and 'mid camps in vain to find
Joys that could rival those I left behind,
Where, grasping at expense I ill could bear,
I saw my farms and woodlands melt to air?—
Yet,—when, by vengeance arm'd, the Gallic host
With bloody inroad threaten'd Albion's coast;
Her veteran warriors o'er the Atlantic main,
Stemming rebellion's bloody surge in vain;
Her recreant fleet swept from her guardian flood;
Manly and firm, while every Briton stood,
Array'd in arms the impending storm defied,
And frown'd confusion on invasion's pride;—

Could I, long train'd in peace, my sword now yield,
When war's loud clarion call'd me to the field?
Or when two factions, whose contention hurl'd
The throne of Britain from the western world,
We saw at length in treacherous compact meet,
To make destruction's horrid work complete;
While patriot George, in Freedom's happy hour,
Appeal'd to England from her Senate's power;
While virtuous youth a people's suffrage won,
And Chatham's soul reviv'd in Chatham's son:
Then as on me, with kind and partial view,
Their favouring eyes the Berkshire yeomen threw;
Rejecting those, who, dup'd by faction's slave,
Turn'd 'gainst themselves the sacred trust they gave;
Could I refuse of Fame the proudest bough,
That e'er can twine around a Briton's brow?—

Friends and companions of my earliest youth,
The ingenuous days of unsuspecting truth;
Who knew to read each feeling of a heart,
That scorn'd the flatt'ring suppliant's servile art;
Of trust conferr'd by you, is still impress'd
The fond remembrance on this grateful breast;—
The proud remembrance!—that no selfish aim
Stain'd the fair wreath you gave of public fame:
That when my hands restor'd the splendid load
Of delegated power your choice bestow'd,
I won the noblest trophy man could raise,
My conduct sanction'd by your fav'ring praise.
But say, did all who led their native swains,
Waste while they guarded their paternal plains?
All whom their country chose with partial eye,
The sacred trust with mortgag'd manors buy?
Say, must of Prudence' voice, the warning sound,
In warm debates and shouts of war be drown'd?

I feel the just reproof—but, ah! how few
The golden path that Prudence points pursue!
Who know to join in Wisdom's sacred band,
The head retentive with the liberal hand;
Who safe their barks from Avarice' quicksands keep,
And the dire vortex of Profusion's deep.
When such I view, who, with forejudging care,
Know how to scatter, and know when to spare;
Who by no selfish passion led aside,
Or the false glare of ostentatious pride;
No pleasure e'er in vain expense can find,
While lavish for the good of human kind;
Whose time, whose care, whose bounties now are given
Free and extensive as the rains of Heaven;
Now like the lucid streams that silent flow,
Sooth by their healing power domestic woe:
Such worth I bless as God's best, noblest boon,
And in the glorious portrait hail Colquhoun!

Such, Prudence! when thy form; with aching breast
I mourn my wand'rings from thy wise behest;
But from thy shape in worldly garb array'd,
I cannot mourn my youthful footsteps stray'd;
Nor, though the frowns of Fortune I endure,
Lament each cause that made, that kept me poor.
I can't regret the promise that I gave
To smooth a parent's passage to the grave;
Less, that my heart fulfill'd the vow it made,
And sav'd his memory from the curse of trade:
I can't regret the happy hour that led
Not wealth, but beauty, to my bridal bed;
Not bart'ring for a plain and portion'd wife,
The dearest bliss that sweetens human life.

Though more than fifty winters tame the blood
Now circling through my veins in calmer flood;
Yet would I rather now, with wearying stroke,
Hew the hard rock, or fell the stubborn oak,
Than buy of wealth and pow'r the envied charms,
By clasping age or foulness in my arms.
But when I see, in youth and vigour warm,
A sordid wretch fly Beauty's angel form;
And sacrifice, for wild Ambition's flight,
To coldness and disgust each tedious night,
I turn from him with Scorn's indignant smile,
Meanest of mean, and vilest of the vile,
'Mid scenes less infamous to seek relief
In the loose pandar, and the midnight thief.

Nor can I much regret the idle days
When Fancy led me through her fairy maze;
Majestic Science, when I gravely woo'd,
Or sported with the Muse in frolic mood:
Though, as 'mid visionary scenes I stray'd,
I saw life's real prospects round me fade;
While with unclouded conscience I can see
A life from guilt, if not from folly free.
Ne'er did my hopes, my soul, my fortune lie
On the fleet courser or the rolling dye:
And though from early youth's first dawning hour,
Still tremblingly alive to beauty's power,
Ne'er did my art seduce a trusting maid,
Ne'er has my purse in shameful forfeit paid
A wife dishonour'd and a friend betray'd.

Then let me not with sorrowing eye pursue
Past scenes, which long have vanish'd from my view;
But ere of life the fleeting shadows close,
Thankful receive what Fortune yet bestows.
And you, my gen'rous friend, whose princely seat
Gives me from noise and strife a short retreat;
Where I can breathe again the fragrant air,
While days of leisure sweeten months of care;
Spring's blushing flowers, and Summer's fruits behold,
And Autumn's stores of vegetable gold;
Accept these votive numbers, nor refuse
The heartfelt offering of a grateful Muse;
Thanks from a heart, which, while it boasts with pride,
A line to patriots, nobles, kings, allied;
Is prouder yet in sterling worth to shine,
Stamp'd by the friendship of a mind like thine.

But now in public rapture's general sound,
Be private joy and private sorrows drown'd;
Behold aloft, on Windsor's stately brow,
Of Britain's isles the Imperial banner flow;
While shouting Berkshire hails Britannia's Lord,
In peace, in triumph, and in health restor'd.—
Dear and parental fields! while swelling Fame
To earth's remotest regions wafts his name;
Tells when Oppression shook her iron mace
In horrid menace o'er the human race,
His dauntless arm and energetic mind
The guardian Ægis rear'd, and sav'd mankind:
You shall behold him in your verdant seat,
From toils of empire and of war retreat
To the mild charities of social life,
The generous offspring, and the faithful wife;
Shall see sons brave, and daughters chaste and fair,
A duteous circle round the royal pair;
See private worth by sceptred greatness shown,
And bliss domestic flourish round a throne.

The Parsonage Improved

Where gentle Deva's lucid waters glide
In slow meanders thro' the winding vale,
And fertile Cestria's pastures green divide;
Deep in the bosom of a sheltering dale
By uplands guarded from the wintry gale,
In rustic site a lowly village stands,
Not laid in form exact with artful scale,
But scatter'd wide by Chance's careless hands
'Mid woods, and breezy hills, and lawns, and fallow'd lands.
Here by the verdant margin of the flood
'Mid osiers dank the humble cottage lies,
And here emerging from the bowering wood
From chimnies low the curling steams arise,
Here on the heath adorn'd with purple dyes
The open casement drinks the ambrosial air,
While pointing boldly to the ambient skies,
The taper steeple marks the house of prayer,
Where to the holy rite the village race repair.
Here erst a simple fabric might you see,
The peaceful mansion of the Parish Priest:
Though unadorn'd with costly symmetry
No splendid portal woo'd the noble guest,
Yet from his lowly door the gentle breast
Was never by unfeeling menace driven,
While Charity in robe of ermine dress'd
Beheld her scanty offerings freely given;
Nor shall her smallest boon escape the eye of heaven.
Though proud Magnificence with splendid arm
Had here no vast superfluous pomp display'd,
Yet Neatness was at hand with simpler charm,
And each domestic comfort lent it's aid.
Though no extended lawns, no forest-shade
Struck with astonishment the enchanted sight,
Yet the small spot in Beauty stood array'd,
Since all around by Husbandry was dight,
For well such cultur'd scenes the placid sense delight.
Right to the golden sun's meridian ray
Healthful, and gay, the chearful front was placed:
Where no Acanthus twin'd with mimic spray
To crown the column of Corinthian taste;
By the soft tendrils of the vine embraced
O'er the slop'd roof the vivid shoots extend,
Now with festoons of leaves luxuriant graced,
And now, as Autumn's ripening beams descend,
Loaded with swelling fruit, the purple clusters bend.
A Garden trim was placed before the door
Kept by diurnal toil in neat array,
By walls defended from the insults frore
Of Boreas' blast, and Eurus' rude affray;
Against whose height leant many a tender spray,
Where the ripe fruits in blushing order glow,
Matur'd by genial Sol's reflected ray:
Nor did their sides unwelcome walk bestow
When though the sun be bright, right keen the winds might blow.
The gravel'd paths by rule exact design'd
In equal parts the cultur'd plot divide,
Where culinary plants of various kind
From every eye the thick espaliers hide,
Beneath, the border deck'd with Flora's pride
Exhibits to the view unnumber'd dyes,
Where in succession through each changing tide
Attentive art the varying plants supplies,
Still to enchant the smell, and fascinate the eyes.
Here venturing on the verge of Winter's power
The Snowdrop, Aconite, and Crocus grow,
The pallid Primrose hails the vernal hour,
And humbly sweet the azure Violets blow,
The Lilies of the vale their fragrance throw,
In meretricious pride the Tulip blooms,
Their gaudy pomp the rich Carnations show,
And, o'er the rest who regal power assumes,
The Rosier's fragrant bud the passing gale perfumes.
Nor did Pomona's treasure less abound
Alternate as the months their power display;
Here crept the fragrant Strawberry on the ground,
Or wav'd the Cherry on the loaded spray,
Here glow'd the Nectarine in the Summer ray,
Here swell'd the Peach all-tempting to the view,
Nor was the Gooseberry's meaner fruit away,
Or Currant red or rich in golden hue,
Or Pear with sugar'd juice, or Plum of glossy blue.
Nor will the Muse disdain with curious eye,
Beyond the thick espalier's verdant skreen,
Amid the vegetable tribes to pry
That spread their shoots the bordering paths between;
Salubrious viands for the board I ween!—
With various dainties was the ground o'erspread,
The Cabbage yellow, and the Colewort green,
The Asparagus that springs in lowly bed,
And Artichokes that rear aloft the spiny head.
The Bean whose perfume scents the ambient skies,
The twining Pea, the Turnip's juicy root,
The Celery that winter's blast defies,
The Radish warm, the Carrot's vigorous shoot,
The rich Potatoe fam'd Ierne's fruit
Sacred to Venus in the genial hour,
The Leek whose steams the hasty Cambrian suit,
With ample head the swelling Cauliflower,
And Lettuce friendly deem'd to Morpheus' drowsy power.
An Orchard too adjoin'd whose vernal hue
Might shame the costly shrubbery's proudest dyes,
Whose daisy'd sod delights the roving view,
And pasture to the gentle steed supplies;
While the bland influence of Autumnal skies
Ripen'd the ruddy fruit of general use,
Either to crown the board with luscious pies,
Or bid the goblet smile with mantling juice,
Bright as the generous wines that Southern climes produce.
Nor was there wanting ornamental care,
The Arbor, seat of Summer jollity,
Where Eglantines perfum'd the evening air,
And Woodbines sweet, and Jasmins fair to see;
Here sometimes from each scene of tumult free
Would Contemplation lift her eye divine,
And sometimes Mirth excite to social glee,
While bright with amber hue the beer would shine,
Or blush the crystal cup with Lusitania's wine.
Should vagrant Fancy tempt the foot to stray
Beyond the Garden's or the Orchard's bound,
Through green inclosures led the winding way
Which the live fence, and leafy hedge-row mound;
While gently gliding through the enamell'd ground
A silver stream with placid current flows,
Whose shelving bank with vivid alders crown'd
A site convenient to the Angler shews
While the delusive fly with skilful hand he throws.
Pleas'd and contented with his calm abode
The reverend Pastor liv'd in quiet state,
The path heaven mark'd he unrepining trod,
Lov'd by the Poor, respected by the Great:
The Harpy Envy, and the Fury Hate,
Far from his gentle flock he drove away,
Till bent at length by Time's increasing weight
His failing powers with gradual lapse decay,
Secure in happier climes to bloom again for aye.
From those fair seats by Isis' sedgy side
Where Rhedecyna rears her hundred spires,
His holy Successor is soon supplied.
His beating bosom swells with new desires;
For by the blest attainment he acquires
A right from monkish cloisters to remove,
Light a pure flame at Wedlock's sacred fires,
And all the scenes of untried rapture prove,
Which crown the mystic couch of Hymeneal Love.
With eager haste he seeks his new abode,
Keen Hope anticipating each delight;
But o'er the little Empire as he strode
It's vulgar Beauties fade upon his sight,
For forms of elegance had charm'd his sprite.
The alley trim offends his nicer taste,
And each compartment rang'd in angles right,
Nor can he see by Husbandry debas'd
Nature's imperial mien with simple Beauty graced.
Much in his mind he bore each lovely seat
That fair Oxonia's neighbouring plains display,
How would his raptur'd heart with transports beat
Through shady Ditchley's spreading groves to stray,
Or as on Nuneham's breezy heights he lay
To view the bending stream of Isis flow
Through meadows rich in all the pride of May,
Or pace the polish'd scenes of princely Stowe,
Or fill his sated eye on Blenheim's towery brow.
Nor need he wander from the Muses shade
To view improving taste's progressive power:
No more in knots by skill capricious laid
Does tonsile box sage Wickham's arms embower.—
Where pious Laud design'd the hallow'd tower
Throws Art her vesture with a chaster hand;
While, welcome refuge from the sultry hour!
By cooling gales with gentle pinions fann'd
Merton's delightful groves with gloomy foliage stand.
Here Ma'dlen too her splendid dome surveys,
Or venerable shade, in Cherwell's stream.—
O witching Memory assist my lays,
And steep my senses in thy soothing dream!
Here wandering oft by Cynthia's silver beam
My youthful Fancy woo'd the sacred Nine,
Or plied by midnight lamp the graver theme,
Or joy'd with Mirth's convivial sons to join,
Or paid the fervent vow at Friendship's holy shrine.
While thus the powers of Elegance unfold
Their Faery visions to his dazzled view,
With scorn his eyes the homely spot behold;—
Anxious the steps of Nature to pursue,
On humbler scale his eager thoughts renew
Whate'er the sons of genuine taste admire,
Whate'er the hands of Brown and Shenstone drew,
Or Wheatley's sober diction could inspire,
Or wak'd the sounding strings of Mason's heavenly Lyre.
Now the strong laborer with repeated blow
Each old incumbring ornament assails,
The guardian wall, it's sheltering height laid low
Admits the Fury of the eastern gales.—
Ah! what it's strength the buttress now avails
That safely kept the garden's flowery scene!—
Spreads the slight fence it's ineffectual rails
Painted by curious Art of dusky green,
Where oft the sportful lambs, destructive creep between.
The espaliers thick with blushing fruitage gay,
The flowing border stretch'd with careful line,
The vegetable viands, all give way,
And low their heads the orchard-trees recline;
While spread abroad with uniform design
The unvaried grass-plot dank extends around
Chequer'd with ragged clumps of sombre pine,
And sinks the deep Haha it's subtle mound,
That nothing from the plain the garden scene may bound.
Close by the border winds with tortur'd course
The gravel'd path it's undulating way,
Where evergreens that mock stern winter's force,
And flowering shrubs their different dyes display.
The Cypress dark, the Lilac's barren spray,
Succeed each useful plant's superior blow,
And as the owner's eyes the work survey
He sees with joy each fair improvement grow,
And deems his little reign a Blenheim or a Stowe.
Now issuing from the garden to the fields
As Taste capricious bares her active arm,
It's leafy shade the lofty Hedgerow yields,
And quits the lofty fence it's fragrant charm:
Nought can it's vernal sweets the stroke disarm,
Low on the earth it's blooming glory lies,
Where erst the pathway shelter'd lay and warm,
And o'er the scene the scatter'd clumps arise
No guard from wintry winds, no shade from sultry skies.
The brook that gently through the level meads
As Nature's hand directed us'd to wind,
Obedient follows now as Fashion leads
In curves is tortur'd, or in lakes confin'd;
While to the hands of Industry consign'd
No more the bending osiers kiss the tide,
Where oft the silent fisher lay reclin'd;
And from the force of Sol's meridian pride
The Naiad tries in vain her throbbing breast to hide.
The work compleated, now survey the scene
Rich in the dress of ornamental Taste,
Each useful plant of humbler homelier green
By barren elegance is now replaced,
While as if seated on the open waste
Unshelter'd, uninclos'd the house appears:
And by no Arts of Husbandry debas'd,
The frequent weed uncheck'd it's offspring rears,
And the rude common's garb the scanty paddock wears.
Wanting the Scythe that each returning dawn
Rank Vegetation's progress should correct,
Unsightly tufts deform the grassy lawn,
Nor can the corded fence the shrubs protect.
Oft will the Shepherd Boy his charge neglect
And crouding Flocks the rising clumps invade,
Oft 'mid the paths by care domestic deck'd
The steed's unseemly ordure will be laid,
And oft the swine obscene uproot the verdant glade.
And here perchance, bending his beetled brow,
Some angry Critic scornful shall exclaim:
‘What Gothic Wight is this, who dares avow
‘To scorn of British Arts the fairest name,
‘Who wishes to recall with Idiot aim
‘What Elegance has banish'd from our shore,
‘Would blast the rural wreath of Albion's fame
‘The ancient forms of Folly to restore,
‘And bid the spruce Parterre usurp her seats once more?’
Far be such blame! no Briton's eye can see
With greater joy the rural taste arise,
Spread wide in native pomp the untortur'd tree,
And the plain turf succeed the tulips dyes,
As Nature boon her simple charm supplies
Dress'd by the hand of Cultivation fair,
Where Art alone the curious eye descries
By shining every lawn with neater air,
The sod's more glossy green, the gardener's nicer care.
When Grandeur spreads around the extended park
Let lavish Nature plan the bold design,
The polish'd culture shall the boundary mark,
And graced, not cramp'd by Art, the Work shall shine:
No need the rule, the level, and the line,
Should 'midst the shades intrude with formal mien,
The splendid walk, the verdant carpet fine,
The contrast bright of variegated green,
Shall shew that artful care has form'd the extensive scene.
But when scant Fortune checks this flattering joy,
Nor gives to ornament the rural reign,
Why the trim Garden's lowlier charms destroy?—
Why Husbandry's more homely cares disdain?—
If Industry with her assiduous train
With step reluctant from the spot recedes,
What features shall distinguish Taste's domain
From the expanse of pastures, and of meads,
But Culture's looser robe, and more luxuriant weeds?