October, 1808

When Poesy, the Child of Zeal, Who soothes each Pang, that Earth can feel, Beheld, at wounded Nature’s call, That Scene of Horror, Needwood’s Fall! She said, in haste to yield Relief, And calm the Mighty Mother’s Grief: “Nature! dear Parent! Power divine! Whose Joys and Griefs are truly mine! To you my sympathy devotes My chearful, and my plaintive Notes: With Feelings not to be supprest, I view your lacerated Breast; This Waste of Ravages! where stood Your Sylvan Wealth! your graceful Wood! I cannot from the rifled Earth Call into sudden, second Birth The Forest, vanished from your sight, Tho’ once your Pride! and my Delight! But I can raise, in your Distress, A Charm, that scarce will soothe you less; Behold this Proof of my Regard, In Needwood’s fascinating Bard!

He, whom our blended Gifts engage To sing, with youthful Fire, in age, He, Needwood! by whose Breath you live, Gives you, whatever Verse can give; He makes immortal, in his Songs, Your Beauties all, and all your Wrongs: His Verse displays a deathless Charm, That foils the Force of Havoc’s Arm; Age after Age, while Nymphs are found To breathe Delight on English Ground, The grateful Dryads will admire The Magic of their Mundy’s Lyre; And boast the Wood, he lov’d to praise, For ever verdant in his Lays.