On The Earl Of Orrery's Cutting Down The Limb Of An Aged Tree Poem by Samuel Bowden

In his Garden at MARSTON, Which intercepted a fine View.

Annosa excelsos tendebat ad æthera ramos;
--- nulla violata securi.

Long unresolv'd, my Lord, you knew not how
To save the prospect, and preserve the bough;
And while the dire event you anxious weigh'd,
Alternate passions in your bosom sway'd.


Long had the reverend branch, with head sublime,
Defy'd the rage of tempests, and of time.
Its aged top, and venerable shade,
Its hoary honours, and majestic head,
To save the favourite limb, pathetic plead.
But the dark foliage intercepts the sight
Of opening beauties, and obstructs the light.
Condemn'd at last, in spight of all debate,
For trees and tyrants must submit to fate;
With trembling hand the pensive gard'ner stands,
Unwilling to obey his Lord's commands:
Thus Pyrrhus paus'd o'er Priam's hoary age,
With sword suspended, and reluctant rage,
In vain-for Juno frown'd, and fate decreed,
That stately Troy must fall, and Priam bleed.


But while the steel inflicts the fatal wound,
The sympathizing Dryads hover round;
At every stroke the conscious Genii groan,
And mimic echos murmur to the moan.
But cease your plaints, an aged Sylvan cries,
In future times a nobler shade shall rise:
Already see the new creation bloom
With infant greens, and flourish in its room;
In unknown paths glad Zephyrs learn to rove,
With pleasing whispers, thro' the rural grove.


These groves shall then Boyle's yet unborn inspire,
And give to summer shade, to winter fire:
Here the bright youths shall spend the learned hours,
In classic walks, and philosophic bowers.


Blest is the man, and happy, if not great,
Whose fair plantations cloath his rural seat.
To future times, and publick good a friend,
He sees new forests from his hands ascend.
Descending sons shall bless the happy change,
And o'er the rising woods delight to range:
New beauties here, and verdant walks explore,
Where barren fields, and desarts spread before.
Here vocal oaks, here towering elms arise,
And waft the planter's praises to the skies:
Fair rows of ash, in vistas long extend,
And trees beneath their ruddy burden bend.
Here bowering beech, and lofty firr-trees climb,
And o'er the humble meadows wave sublime.
While the gay moderns, of politer taste,
What former ages rais'd, in riot waste:
Quit their old villas, and paternal seats,
Or in mad folly dissipate estates:
Disperse their wealth in Vanity and Vice,
And lose a Dairy at a throw of Dice;
For smoaky towns forsake the fields and brooks,
And leave their farms to peasants and to rooks.
While some, a false capricious taste to please,
Destroy the greens, the gardens, and the trees.
Like beacons now the modern villas rise,
To form a view, expos'd to northern skies:
Stript of their greens, the naked mansions mourn,
And flow'ry gardens into pastures turn.


But you, my Lord, who nobler views attend,
Your wiser hours in rural business spend;
Bid gardens bloom, and trees adorn your pile,
Bless the poor swain, and bid the desart smile;
Diffuse your generous bounty all around,
And while you feed the peasant, bless the ground.


So high-your thoughts with noble scorn despise,
With mean ambition, in a court to rise:
And yet, from pride and haughty spirit free,
So low-you smile upon my Muse, and Me.