As tho' the Muse did not this breast inspire, I see, I hear, and feel, and melt away. PERAMBULATORY MUSINGS from BLENHEIM HOUSE, in OXFORDSHIRE, to TITLEY, HEREFORDSHIRE”. WH [From the Same.] HERE Blenheim's turrets rise to view, Still live in Rysbrac's free design, And still in Rubens' colouring shine; Where Mariborough's valour, Marlborough's praise, Mid varying pleasure through the days Who might not linger life away? Thro' woods, and groves, or vista clear, The crystal riv'let sparkling near, Still loit'ring idly gay along, Muse, as inspir'd, the sylvan song? How vain the wish! how quick the change! Thro' simpler scenes my footsteps range, And Art but claims the second place; This poem intends to show the effect of variety on the human mind, as well as the pleasure of female society, and not to compare together with the most discriminating accuracy the different places alluded to, though discrimination is not entirely overlooked. The general style of Vanbrugh is here alluded to, and not the character of this particular building. After some observations on the Greek and Roman architecture, Gilpin well remarks of Blenheim, "Vanbrugh's attempt seems to have been an effort at genius; and if we can keep the imagination apart from the five orders, we must allow, that he has created a magnificent whole, which is invested with an air of grandeur, seldom seen in a more regular kind of building. What made Vanbrugh ridiculocs, was his applying to small houses a style of architecture, that could not possibly succeed but in a large one." Observations relative chiefly to Picturesque Beauty, part ii. chap. iii. The scenery, on entering the great gate from Woodstock, is the master-piece of the great improver Brown, who used to say, alluding to the lake, "the Thames would never forgive what he had done at Blenheim." Price, however, in his Essay on the Picturesque, has minutely criticised it. 1801. P Scenes, Scenes, trimm'd by Shenstone, neat and Sometimes sad, and sometimes gay, Ever musing, ever ranging, As brooks thro' winding valleys flow, * The residence, properly the adorned farm, of the late William Shenstone, the poet. + It was intended some what to characterise Shenstone's poetry in these lines. It has been well done by Gray. "But then there is Mr. Shenstone, who trusts to nature, and simple sentiment;-why does he not do better? He goes on hopping about his own gravel walks; and never deviates froin the beaten paths, for fear of being lost." Gray's Letter to Warton, in Mason's Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Gray. The seat of lord Lyttelton. The design however at Hagley is allowed to be more obscure, minute, and trifling, as well as possessed of less variety, than the Leasowes :-the author's object should be kept in view, which is to delineate the effect of variety on the mind. And And, gliding on some latent ore, Ah! then does Nature deck in vain Thus onward slow I bend my way, * Where near fair Eywood's seat is seen, To native scenes new charms can give, Vocal groves, and tuneful streams, Where Dryad nymphs are wont to stray, By Zephyrus to his bridal bed, *The seat of the earl and countess of Oxford. P 2 (Then (Then pencil'd did the fields appear Or Fiction's various hand can weave; Till Beauty's lovely form be nigh: Where Woman walks, there seems t'appear ODE for HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY. [BY HENRY JAMES PYE, ESQ. POET-LAUREAT.] TILL, still, must War's discordant note Must the shrill clarion's brazen throat Frowns on the olive's sacred bough, O Britain! not from abject fear, Or pale mistrust, or weaken'd power, ` Thy breast with warlike ardour glows; Right onward keep their daring course." The chief, who from Canopus' sultry shore Now through the Baltic's freezing surge Aloft in Hyperborean skies, Denmark astonish'd, from her threaten'd tow'rs, Yields up her naval boast to Albion's happier pow'rs. And And lo! where Philip's mightier son Bade the proud city's rising walls proclaim To distant times their founder's name, Fresh trophies by Britannia's legions won; When from the veteran bands of Gallia's shore Their dauntless arms the blood-stain'd banner tore, Which, like a baleful meteor, spread, To fields of death th' infuriate warriors led. Yet, 'mid the deeds of endless fame, Shall not a tear the dying victor claim? ́ No!-o'er his tomb with guardian wings Hov'ring, the eternal Pan Glory sings; Chaunting with note triumphant to the skies, His name thro' country lives who for his ages Enough of war!-While Britain sees, The pallid Dæmon of disease Lead far away her sickly band; dies. Strains that Affection forms, that Transport breathes, The fragrant offerings join that June ambrosial wreathes. "A ODE on the ANCIENTS. [By PETER PINDAR.] LL has been said the world has nought to yield The ancients with their hooks have reap'd the field; The ancients for the moderns were too stout; Yes! the deep mine of knowledge is work'd out!" So cries the world. But who are these that speak P3 Reap |