Verses by Mr. Dodsley, on His First Arrival at the Leasowes, 1754

" How shall I fix my wand'ring eye? where find " The source of this enchantment? Dwells it in " The woods? or waves there not a magic wand " O'er the translucent waters? Sure, unseen, " Some fav'ring power directs the happy lines " That sketch these beauties; swells the rising hills, " And scoops the dales to Nature's finest forms, " Vague, undetermin'd, infinite; untaught " By line or compass, yet supremely fair!" So spake Philenor, as with raptur'd gaze He travers'd Damon's farm: from distant plains He sought his friend's abode; nor had the fame Of that new-form'd Arcadia reach'd his ear.

And thus the swain, as o'er each hill and dale, Thro' lawn or thicket, he pursu'd his way: " What is it gilds the verdure of these meads " With hues more bright than Fancy paints the flowers " Of Paradise? What Naïad's guiding hand " Leads, thro' the broider'd vale, these lucid rills, " That, murm'ring as they flow, bear melody " Along their banks, and thro' the vocal shades " Improve the music of the woodland choir? " What pensive Dryad rais'd yon' solemn grove, " Where minds contemplative, at close of day " Retiring, muse o'er Nature's various works, " Her wonders venerate, or her sweets enjoy?— " What room for doubt? some rural deity, " Presiding, scatters o'er th' unequal lawns, " In beauteous wildness, yon' fair-spreading trees, " And, mingling woods and waters, hills and dales, " And herds and bleating flocks, domestic fowl, " And those that swim the lake, sees rising round " More pleasing landscapes than in Tempe's vale " Penéus water'd. Yes, some sylvan god " Spreads wide the varied prospect, waves the woods, " Lifts the proud hills, and clears the shining lakes, " While, from the congregated waters pour'd, " The bursting torrent tumbles down the steep " In foaming fury: fierce, irregular, " Wild, interrupted, cross'd with rocks and roots " And interwoven trees; till, soon absorb'd, " An opening cavern all its rage entombs. " So vanish human glories! such the pomp " Of swelling warriors, of ambitious kings, " Who fret and strut their hour upon the stage " Of busy life, and then are heard no more!

" Yes, 'tis enchantment all—And see! the spells, " The pow'rful incantations, magic verse, " Inscrib'd on ev'ry tree, alcove, or urn.— " Spells!—Incantations!—Ah! my tuneful Friend! " Thine are the numbers, thine the wonderous work!— " Yes, great Magician! now I read thee right, " And lightly weigh all sorcery but thine. " No Naïad's leading step conducts the rill, " Nor sylvan god presiding skirts the lawn " In beauteous wildness, with fair-spreading trees, " Nor magic wand has circumscrib'd the scene: " 'Tis thine own taste, thy genius that presides, " Nor needs there other deity, nor needs " More potent spells than they."—No more the swain, For, lo! his Damon, o'er the tufted lawn Advancing, leads him to the social dome.