Lines Upon Visiting Corby, The Seat Of Henry Howard, Esq. Poem by Robert Anderson

Ye few who court the sylvan shade,
The moss--clad hill, the deep cascade;
The hanging wood, enamell'd grove,
The hollow rock, sweet scene of love!
Where Echo many a sighing tale
Bears soft upon the balmy gale;
To you I give the artless lay,
Who Nature's wildness pleas'd survey.
Around the birds are heard to sing;
Around the flow'rs are seen to spring,
Whose sweets the ambient air perfume,
And each its neighbour mocks in bloom.
Its blossoms fair the hedge--row bears;
Its countless shades the forest wears.
The ivy'd oaks their branches spread;
The fragrant woodbine hangs its head,
Creeping around the rude--wov'n bow'r,
Or near the time--rent mould'ring tow'r.
How gay appears each distant scene,
Where scatter'd hamlets intervene;
And winding vales and verdant hills
The pensive breast with transport fills.
Here rev'ling Mab, the faery queen,
By wond'ring villagers is seen,
In harmless gambols on the green,
Attended by her sportive train,
When Cynthia gilds the dewy plain;
Or tripping round the spangl'd thorn,
Till banish'd by th'approach of morn.
Here bubbling springs, in sadd'ning sound,
Steal o'er the bank with poplars crown'd,
Where silver Eden glides along,
Responsive to the woodlark's song;
And, near the rugged rocky steep,
The Naiads sport upon the deep;
While on the shore, with watchful eye,
Attentive to his well--shap'd fly,
The angler snares the silv'ry fry.

Tho' some pursue the pomp of courts,
Or seek delusive Pleasure's sports:
In wand'ring o'er her mazy round,
Content, alas! is seldom found;
But oft her paths the feet betray
That venture on her thorny way,
And man too late perceives the snare,
When fall'n a prey to cank'ring Care.
Here, free from busy scenes of strife,
True joys attend the rural life.
Then ye who would these pleasures share,
To Corby's lone retreats repair,
For Peace and Virtue wait you there.

Let others praise the Leasowes' plains,
Where Shenstone tun'd his love--lorn strains--
Strains to the pensive bosom dear,
That claim the tribute of a tear:--
Yet, tho' he sung of groves and bow'rs;
Of winding paths bestrewn with flow'rs;
Of murm'ring streamlets, echoing glades,
Woods, lawns, and minstrel--haunted shades;
His lambkins sporting near the brook,
His garland, pipe, or shepherd's crook;
'Twas Art and Fancy brought to view,
What Nature here presents to you.