LINES
WRITTEN IN A FINE WINTER’S DAY,
At the Shooting-Box of my Friend, W. Cope, Esq.
NEAR ORPINGTON, KENT.
Tho’ leafless are the woods, tho’ flow’rs no more,
In beauty blushing, spread their fragrant store,
Yet still ’tis sweet to quit the crowded scene,
And rove with Nature, tho’ no longer green;
For Winter bids her winds so softly blow,
That, cold and famine scorning, even now
The feather’d warblers still delight the ear,
And all of Summer, but her leaves, is here.
Here, on this winding garden’s sloping bound,
’Tis sweet to listen to each rustic sound,
The distant dog-bark, and the rippling rill,
Or catch the sparkling of the water-mill.
The tranquil scene each tender feeling moves;
As the eye rests on Holwood’s naked groves,
A tear bedims the sight for Chatham’s son,
For him whose god-like eloquence could stun,
Like some vast cat’ract, Faction’s clam’rous tongue,
Or by its sweetness charm, like Virgil’s song,
For him, whose mighty spirit rous’d afar
Europe’s plum’d legions to the hallow’d war;
But who, ah! hapless tale! could not inspire
Their recreant chiefs with his heroic fire;
Who, as they pass’d the tyrant Conqu’ror’s yoke,
Felt, as the bolt of Heav’n, the ruthless stroke;
And having long, in vain, the tempest brav’d,
Could breathe no longer in a world enslav’d.