Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all On some patch'd dog hole ek'd with ends of wall;

Then clap four slices of pilaster on't,

That, lae'd with bits of rustic, makes a front:
Shall call the winds thro' long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;
Conscious they act a true Palladian part,
And if they starve, they starve by rules of art.
Oft have you hinted to your brother peer,
A certain truth, which many buy too dear:
Something there is more needful than expense,
And something previous ev'n to taste-'tis

sense:

Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And, tho' no science, fairly worth the seven : A light, which in yourself you must perceive; Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

To build, to plant, whatever you intend, To rear the column, or the arch to bend, To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot; In all, let nature never be forgot; But treat the goddess like a modest fair, Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare; Let not each beauty ev'ry where be spied, Where half the skill is decently to hide. He gains all points who pleasingly confounds, Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.

Consult the genius or the place in all; That tells the waters or to rise or fall; Or helps th' ambitious hill the heavens to scale, Or scoops in circling theatres the vale; Calls in the country, catches op'ning glades, Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades;

Now breaks, or now directs, th' intending lines;

Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.

Sull follow sense, of ev'ry art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole; Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Start ev'n from difficulty, strike from chance; Nature shall join you; time shall make it grow A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow.

Without it, proudVersailles! thy glory falls; And Nero's terraces desert their walls: The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make,

Lo! Cobhain comes, and floats them with a luke:

Or cut wide views thro' mountains to the plain,

You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,
Nor in an hermitage set Dr Clarke.

Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete,
His quincunx darkens, his espaliers mect,

The wood supports the plain, the parts unite,

And strength of shade contend with strength of light;

A waving glow the bloomy beds display,
Blushing in bright diversities of day,
With silver quiv'ring rills meander'd o'er—
Enjoy them you! Villario can no more:
Tird of the scene parterres and fountains
yield,

He finds at last be better likes a field.
Thro' his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus
stray'd,

Or sat delighted in the thick'ning shade,
With aunual joy the redd'ning shoots to
greet,

Or see the stretching branches long to meet!
His son's fine taste na op'ner vista loves,
Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves;
One boundless green or flourish'd carpet
views,

With all the mournful families of yews;
The thriving plants ignoble broomsticks made,
And sweep those alleys they were born to
shade.

At Timon's villa let us pass a day, Where all cry out, "What sums are thrown away?"

So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air,
Soft and agreeable come never there.
Greatness with Timon dwells in such a draught
As brings all Brobdignag hefore your thought.
To compass this his building is a town,
His pond an ocean, his pai terre a down:
Who but must laugh the master when he
sees,

A puny insect shiv`ring at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole a labour'd quarry above ground.
| Two Cupids squirt before; a lake behind
Improves the keenness of the northern

wind.

His gardens next your admiration call;
On ev'ry side you look behind the wall!
No pleasing intricacies intervenc,
No artful wildness to perplex the scene ;
Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suff'ring eye inverted nature sees,
Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;
With here a fountain never to be play'd,
And there a summer-house that knows no
shade;

Here Amphitrite sails thro' myrtle bow'rs,
There gladiators fight or die in flow'rs ;
Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.

My lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen : But soft-by regular approach-not yetFirst thro' the length of yon' hot terrace sweat;

And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd

your thighs,

Just at his study door he'll bless your eyes.

His study with what authors is it stor'd? In books, not authors, curious is my lord; To all their dated backs he turns you round; These Aldus printed, these Du Sueil has bound!

Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good, For all his lordship knows, but they are wood!

For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look;
These shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the pride of pray`r:
Light quirks of music, broken and unev’u,
Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.
On painted cielings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawi the Saints of Verrio or La-

I curse such lavish cost and little skill,
And swear no day was ever past so ill.
Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry
fed;

Health to himself and to his infants bread
The lab'rer bears: what his hard heart
denies,

His charitable vanity supplies.

Another age shall see the golden ear Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre. Deep harvests bury all his pride has plaun'd, And laughing Ceres reassume the land. Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil?

Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle?

'Tis use alone that sanctifics expence, And splendour borrows all her rays from

sense.

His father's acres who enjoys in peace, Or makes his neighbours glad if he increase; Whose chearful tenants bless their yearly

toil,

SEE the wild waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, With uodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead! Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, Where, mix'd with slaves, the groaning martyr toil'd:

Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drain'd a distant country of her floods: Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, Statues of inen scarce less alive than they! Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage. Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.

Perhaps, by its own ruin sav'd from flame, Some buried marble half preserves a name; That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,

And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

Ambition sigh'd: she found it vain to trust The faithless column and the crumbling bust: Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shore,

Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more!
Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design,
And all her trinmph shrinks into a coin.

A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps ;
Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps.
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or

Rhine;

And small Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd, And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Thro' climes and ages bears each form and name;

In one short view subjected to our eye,
Gods, Emp'rors, heroes, sages, beauties lie.
With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore,
Th' inscription value, but the rust adore,
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years.

To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes; One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams.

| Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd,

Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd:

And Curio, restless by the fair one's side,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine;
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories
shine,

Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush these studies thy regard engage;
These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage:
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
And art reflected images to art.

Oh when shall Britain, conscious of her
claim,

Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame'
In living medals see her wars enroll'd,
And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold?
Here' rising bold, the patriot's honest face;
There, warriors frowning in heroic brass:
Then future ages with delight shall see
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;
Or in fair series laurell'd bards be shown,
A Virgil there, and here an Addison.

Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)

On the cast ore, another Pollio shine;
With aspect open shall erect his head,
And-round the orb in lasting notes be read,
"Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sin-

cere,

"In action faithful, and in honour clear; "Who broke no promise, serv'd no private

end,

"Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; Ennobled by himself, by all approv`d, "And prais'd, unenvied, by the Muse he lev'd."

Printed by J. BELL, Strand, London.