Laudes Dargelli; or, Verses on the Dargle

What Poet justly can recite, O, Dargle, pregnant with delight! The beauties of thy various bowers, Where Nature sheds her kindly powers; And gives perfections to each sense, In pomp of rustic excellence?

Here rocks high tow'ring tow'rds the skies, Attract the pleas'd spectator's eyes; And here th' extending trees of Jove Produce a cool imbowering grove, The waters whisp'ring as they flow, Amid the shelving rocks below, Join concert with the mingled song, Of the melodious feather'd throng.

May courteous Powerscourt ne'er disseize, Eblana's sons of all these joys, Who gaily leave the City's care, T' imbibe the Dargle's purer air; Where thy brisk vot'ry, loveliest queen! Whilst roving thro' some hillocks green, Makes known his ardent am'rous fire, To the dear object of desire: In some lone spot which charms adorn, He tells the passion sadly borne; Where each soft breeze revives th' old man, And strengthens Life's uncertain span.

Within thy lofty whisp'ring woods, Where Dryads sport, and Sylvan Gods, The blush that in each virgin shews, Compensates for the absent rose.

Here on a bank, refrigerant seat, Screen'd from the Sun's o'ercoming heat, Some stretch'd at ease the hours employ, In Bacchus's unbounded joy, And o'er each sparkling glass rejoice To hail with loud according voice, Thee, noble Owner, as I stood, Thy praise resounding thro' the wood. "O, Powerscourt, graciously benign, Sprung from a long illustrious line, May'st thou, who often bidd'st us rove, Thro' this terrene Elysian grove; Such from th' impartial dest'nies get, Whene'er thou pay'st our common debt."