Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol III, No 13, 1851 - Various

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of sense,

      A stupid moment motionless she stood:

      So stands the statue that enchants the world:

      So bending tries to vail the matchless boast,

      The mingled beauties of exulting Greece.

      Recovering, swift she flew to find those robes

      Which blissful Eden knew not; and, array'd

      In careless haste, the alarming paper snatch'd.

      But when her Damon's well known hand she saw

      Her terrors vanish'd, and a softer train

      Of mix'd emotions, hard to be describ'd,

      Her sudden bosom seiz'd: shame void of guilt,

      The charming blush of innocence, esteem

      And admiration of her lover's flame,

      By modesty exalted. Even a sense

      Of self-approving beauty stole across

      Her busy thought. At length, a tender calm

      Hushed by degrees the tumult of her soul,

      And on the spreading beech, that o'er the stream

      Incumbent hung, she with the sylvan pen

      Of rural lovers this confession carv'd,

      Which soon her Damon kiss'd with weeping joy:

      "Dear youth! sole judge of what these verses mean,

      By fortune too much favor'd, but by love,

      Alas! not favor'd less, be still as now

      Discreet, the time may come you need not fly."

      The sun has lost his rage; his downward orb

      Shoots nothing now but animating warmth,

      And vital lustre; that, with various ray,

      Lights up the clouds, those beauteous robes of heaven

      Incessant roll'd into romantic shapes,

      The dream of waking fancy! Broad below

      Cover'd with ripening fruits, and swelling fast

      Into the perfect year, the pregnant earth

      And all her tribes rejoice. Now the soft hour

      Of walking comes: for him who lonely loves

      To seek the distant hills, and there converse

      With Nature; there to harmonize his heart,

      And in pathetic song to breathe around

      The harmony to others. Social friends,

      Attun'd to happy unison of soul —

      To whose exalting eye a fairer world,

      Of which the vulgar never had a glimpse,

      Displays its charms – whose minds are richly fraught

      With philosophic stores, superior light —

      And in whose breast, enthusiastic, burns

      Virtue the sons of interest deem romance,

      Now call'd abroad enjoy the falling day:

      Now to the verdant portico of woods,

      To Nature's vast lyceum, forth they walk;

      By that kind school where no proud master reigns,

      The full free converse of the friendly heart,

      Improving and improv'd. Now from the world,

      Sacred to sweet retirement, lovers steal,

      And pour their souls in transport, which the Sire

      Of love approving hears, and calls it good.

      Which way, Amanda, shall we bend our course?

      The choice perplexes. Wherefore should we choose?

      All is the same with thee. Say shall we wind

      Along the streams? or walk the smiling mead;

      Or court the forest glades? or wander wild

      Among the waving harvests? or ascend,

      While radiant Summer opens all its pride,

      Thy hill, delightful Sheen? Here let us sweep

      The boundless landscape; now the raptur'd eye

      Exulting swift, to huge Augusta send,

      Now to the sister-hills that skirt her plain

      To lofty Harrow now, and now to where

      Majestic Windsor lifts his princely brow.

      In lovely contrast to this glorious view,

      Calmly magnificent, then will we turn

      To where the silver Thames first rural grows.

      There let the feasted eye unwearied stray;

      Luxurious, there, rove through the pendent woods

      That nodding hang o'er Harrington's retreat,

      And stooping thence to Ham's embowering walks,

      Beneath whose shades, in spotless peace retir'd,

      With her the pleasing partner of his heart,

      The worthy Queensbury yet laments his Gay,

      And polish'd Cornbury woos the willing muse,

      Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames —

      Fair-winding up to where the muses haunt

      In Twit'nam's bowers, and for their Pope implore

      The healing god, to royal Hampton's pile,

      To Clermont's terrac'd height, and Esher's groves,

      Where in the sweetest solitude, embrac'd

      By the soft windings of the silent Mole,

      From courts and senates Pelham finds repose.

      Enchanting vale! beyond whate'er the muse

      Has of Achaia or Hesperia sung!

      O vale of bliss! O softly swelling hills!

      On which the power of cultivation lies,

      And joys to see the wonders of his toil.

      Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around,

      Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires,

      And glittering towns, and gilded streams, till all

      The stretching landscape into smoke decays!

      Happy Britannia! where the queen of arts,

      Inspiring vigor, liberty abroad

      Walks, unconfin'd, even to thy farthest cots,

      And scatters plenty, with unsparing hand.

      Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime:

      Thy streams unfailing in the Summer's drought

      Unmatch'd thy guardian oaks; thy valleys float

      With golden waves; and on thy mountains flocks

      Bleat numberless – while, roving round their sides,

      Bellow the blackening herds in lusty droves.

      Beneath, thy meadows glow, and rise unquell'd

      Against the mower's scythe. On every hand

      Thy villas shine. Thy country teems with wealth

      And property assures it to the swain,

      Pleas'd and unwearied in his guarded toil.

      Full are thy cities with the sons of art;

      And trade and joy, in every busy street,

      Mingling are heard: even drudgery himself.

      As at the car he sweats, or dusty hews

      The palace-stone, looks

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