On the Discovery of an Echo at Edgbaston

Ha! what art thon, whose voice unknown Pours on these plains its tender moan? Art thou the nymph in Shenstone's dale, Who dost with plaintive note bewail That he forsakes th' Aonian maids, To court inconstant rills and shades? Mourn not, sweet Nymph!—Alas! in vain Do they invite and thou complain—

Yet while he woo'd the gentle throng, With liquid lay and melting song, The list'ning herd around him stray'd, In wanton frisk the lambkins play'd, And every Naïad ceas'd to lave Her azure limbs amid the wave: The Graces danc'd; the rosy band Of Smiles and Loves went hand in hand, And purple Pleasures strew'd the way With sweetest flow'rs; and every ray Of each fond Muse with rapture fir'd, To glowing thoughts his breast inspir'd; The hills rejoic'd, the vallies rung, All Nature smil'd while Shenstone sung.

So charm'd his lay; but now no more— Ah! why dost thou repeat—"No more?" Ev'n now he hies to deck the grove, To deck the scene the Muses love, And soon again will own their sway, And thou resound the peerless lay, And with immortal numbers fill Each rocky cave and vocal hill.