The Progress of Taste: or, the Fate of Delicacy, Part the Third

The buoyant fires of youth were o'er, And same and finery pleas'd no more, Productive of that gen'ral stare, Which cool reflection ill can bear, And, crowds commencing mere vexation, Retirement sent its invitation.

Romantic scenes of pendent hills, And verdant vales and falling rills, And mossy banks the fields adorn, Where Damon, simple Swain! was born.

The Dryads rear'd a shady grove, Where such as think, and such as love, May safely sigh their summer's day, Or muse their silent hours away.

The Oreads lik'd the climate well, And taught the level plain to swell In verdant mounds, from whence the eye Might all their larger works descry.

The Naiads pour'd their urns around, From nodding rocks o'er vales profound; They form'd their streams to please the view, And bade them wind as serpents do, And having shewn them where to stray, Threw little pebbles in their way.

These Fancy, all-sagacious maid! Had at their several tasks survey'd: She saw and smil'd; and oft' would lead Our Damon's foot o'er hill and mead, There, with descriptive finger, trace The genuine beauties of the place, And when she all its charms had shown, Prescribe improvements of her own.

" See yonder hill, so green, so round, " Its brow with ambient beeches crown'd! " 'Twould well become thy gentle care " To raise a dome to Venus there; " Pleas'd would the nymphs thy zeal survey, " And Venus in their arms repay. " 'Twas such a shade and such a nook, " In such a vale, near such a brook, " From such a rocky fragment springing, " That fam'd Apollo chose to sing in; " There let an altar wrought with art " Engage thy tuneful patron's heart: " How charming there to muse and warble " Beneath his bust of breathing marble! " With laurel wreath and mimic lyre, " That crown a poet's vast desire: " Then, near it, scoop the vaulted cell " Where Music's charming maids may dwell, " Prone to indulge thy tender passion, " And make thee many' an assignation. " Deep in the grove's obscure retreat " Be plac'd Minerva's sacred seat; " There let her awful turrets rise, " (For Wisdom flies from vulgar eyes) " There her calm dictates shalt thou hear " Distinctly strike thy list'ning ear; " And who would shun the pleasing labour, " To have Minerva for his neighbour?"

In short, so charm'd each wild suggestion, Its truth was little call'd in question; And Damon dream'd he saw the Fauns And Nymphs distinctly skim the lawns; Now trac'd amid the trees, and then Lost in the circling shades again, With leer oblique their lover viewing— And Cupid—panting—and pursuing— " Fancy, enchanting Fair!" he cry'd, " Be thou my goddess, thou my guide; " For thy bright visions I despise " What foes may think or friends advise. " The feign'd concern, when folks survey " Expense, time, study, cast away; " The real spleen with which they see; " I please myself, and follow thee."

Thus glow'd his breast, by Fancy warm'd, And thus the fairy landscape charm'd: But most he hop'd his constant care Might win the favour of the fair; And, wand'ring late thro' yonder glade, He thus the soft design betray'd.

" Ye Doves! for whom I rear'd the grove, " With melting lays salute my love! " My Delia with your notes detain, " Or I have rear'd the grove in vain. " Ye Flow'rs! which early spring supplies, " Display at once your brightest dyes, " That she your op'ning charms may see, " Or what were else your charms to me? " Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flow'r, " And shed its odours round my bow'r, " Or ne'er again, O gentle Wind! " Shall I in thee refreshment find. " Ye Streams! if e'er your banks I lov'd, " If e'er your native sounds improv'd, " May each soft murmur sooth my fair, " Or, oh! 'twill deepen my despair. " Be sure, ye Willows! you be seen " Array'd in liveliest robes of green, " Or I will tear your slighted boughs, " And let them fade around my brows. " And thou, my Grott! whose lonely bounds " The melancholy pine surrounds, " May she admire thy peaceful gloom, " Or thou shalt prove her lover's tomb."

And now the lofty domes were rear'd, Loud laugh'd the squires, the rabble star'd.

" See, Neighbours! what our Damon's doing; " I think some folks are fond of ruin! " I saw his sheep at random stray— " But he has thrown his crook away— " And builds such huts as, in foul weather, " Are fit for sheep nor shepherd neither."

Whence came the sober swain misled? Why, Phoebus put it in his head: Phoebus befriends him, we are told; And Phoebus coins bright tuns of gold. 'Twere prudent not to be so vain on't, I think he'll never touch a grain on't. And if from Phoebus and his Muse Mere earthly laziness ensues, 'Tis plain, for aught that I can say, The dev'l inspires as well as they. So they—while fools of grosser kind, Less weeting what our bard design'd, Impute his schemes to real evil, That in these haunts he met the devil.

He own'd, tho' their advice was vain, It suited wights who trod the plain; For dulness—tho' he might abhor it, In them he made allowance for it; Nor wonder'd, if beholding mottoes, And urns, and domes, and cells, and grottoes, Folks, little dreaming of the Muses, Were plagu'd to guess their proper uses.

But did the Muses haunt his cell? Or in his dome did Venus dwell? Did Pallas in his counsels share? The Delian god reward his pray'r? Or did his zeal engage the fair? When all the structure shone complete, Not much convenient, wondrous neat, Adorn'd with gilding, painting, planting, And the fair guests alone were wanting; Ah, me! ('twas Damon's own confession) Came Poverty and took possession.