Dawley-FARM, THE RETIREMENT OF Lord BOLINGBROKE

'Tis sung, that, exil'd by Tyrannic Jove, Apollo, from the starry Realms above, To Sylvan Shades, to Grots and Streams retir'd, And that new Scene and that new State admir'd; Admir'd, but found (with Pleasure and Surprize) Himself the same on Earth as in the Skies; A simple Majesty, an easy Grace Compos'd his Steps, and lighten'd in his Face; The wond'ring Swains and Nymphs, where'er he trod, At Distance gaz'd, and recogniz'd the God; Where'er he pass'd, the World, his Influence knew And Learning, Arts, and Wisdom round him grew, Still, tho' in silent Privacy, he gave, His wonted Aid; inspired the Wise and Brave; Taught Patriots Policy; taught Poets Sense; And bade all live, or die, in LIBERTY's Defence.

Sure this is verify'd: What here we view In BOLINGBROKE has made the Fiction true.

See! Emblem of Himself, his Villa stand! Politely finish'd, regularly Grand! Frugal of Ornament, but That the best, And all with curious Negligence express'd. No gaudy Colours stain the Rural Hall, Blank Light and Shade descriminate the Wall; Where thro' the whole we see his lov'd Design, To please with Mildness, without Glaring shine; Himself neglects what must all others charm, And what he built a Palace calls a Farm. Here the proud Trophies, and the Spoils of War Yield to the Scythe, the Harrow and the Car; To whate'er Implement the Rustic wields, Whate'er manures the Gardens or the Fields. Contrast of Scenes! Behold a worthless Tool, A dubb'd Plebeian, Fortune's Fav'rite Fool, Laden with Public Plunder loll in State, 'Midst dazling Gems, and Piles of Massy Plate, 'Midst Arms, and Kings, and Gods and Heroes quaff, His Wit all ending in an Ideot-Laugh, Whilst noble Saint-John in his sweet Recess, (By those made greater who would make him less) Sees, on the figur'd Wall, the Stacks of Corn With Beauty more than theirs the Room adorn. Young winged Cupids smiling guide the Plow, And Peasants elegantly reap and sow, The Mantuan Genius, thus, in rural Strains, Adds Grace to Cots, and Dignity to Swains, Makes Phaebus' self partake the Farmer's Toil, And all the Muses cultivate the Soil. While free of Heart, and eloquent of Tongue, His Speech as tuneful as that Heav'nly Song, Suspends in Rapture each attentive Guest; Words more delicious than his gen'rous Feast; Wit more inspiring than his flowing Bowl; " The Feast of Reason, and the Flow of Soul."

O Britain!—But 'tis past—O lost to Fame! The wond'rous Man, thy Glory, and thy Shame, Conversing with the mighty Minds of Old, Names like his Own, in Time's bright List inroll'd, Here splendidly obscure, delighted lives, And only for his wretched Country grieves. While Thou, ingrate, infatuate, as thou art, Of thy mad Conduct long shalt feel the Smart, Long mourn the Folly which thy Weal destroys, And rue the blest Retirement he enjoys.