For fuch a Wonder's rarely known,
As a lewd Woman honest grown.'
So when a River's rapid Courfe
O'erflows its Banks with rapid Force,
Then all Endeavours are in vain,
To turn it to its Bounds again.
GROTTO fo complete, with fuch Design, What Hands, Calypfo, could have form'd but thine?
Each chequer'd Pebble, and each fhining
So well proportion'd, and difpos'd fo well,
Surprizing Luftre from thy Thoughts receive,
Affuming Beauties more than Nature gave.
To her their various Shapes, and gloffy Hue,
Their curious Symmetry they owe to You.
Not fam'd Amphion's Lute, whofe pow'rful Call
Made willing Stones dance to the Theban Wall,
In more harmonious Ranks could make them fall.
Not Ev'ning Cloud a brighter Arch can shew,
Nor richer Colours paint the heav'nly Bow..
Where can unpolish'd Nature boaft a Piece,
In all her Moffy Cells exact as this?
At the gay party-colour'd Scene we start,
For Chance too regular, too rude for Art.
Charm'd with the Sight, my rayifh'd Breaft is fir'd,
With Hints like those which ancient Bards inspir'd;
All the feign'd Tales by Superftition told,
All the bright Train of fabled Nymphs of old,
Th' enthufiaftick Mufe believes are true,
Thinks the Spot facred, and its Genius you.
Loft in wild Rapture, would fhe fain disclose,
How by Degrees the pleafing Wonder rofe;
Industrious in a faithful Verse to trace,
The various Beauties of the lovely Place:
And while fhe keeps the glowing work in view,
Thro' ev'ry Maze thy artful Hand pursue.
Oh! were I equal to the bold Design,
Or could I boaft fuch happy Art as Thine!
That could rude Shells in fuch fweet Order place,
Give common Objects fuch uncommon Grace!
Like them my well-chofe Words in ev'ry Line,
As fweetly temper'd, fhould as fweetly shine,
So just a Fancy fhould my Numbers warm,
Like the gay Piece should the Description charm.
Then with fuperior Strength my Voice I'd raise,
The ecchoing GROTTO fhould approve my Lays,
Pleas'd to reflect the well-fung Founder's Praife.
Translation of Horace,
BOOK I. Ode 4.
HE Winter melts away, the Spring takes
place,
Warm Winds the Icy Streams release;
And Ships revifit the neglected Seas.
The Cattle range afar, from Stals let lofe;
No more the Hearth with Ashes glows,
And fnowy Meads their hoary Fleeces lofe.
Venus in Pairs now calls again
Her Nymphs and Graces, lovely Train,
To dance by Moon-shine on the verdant Plain;
There Hand in Hand they ply their nimble Feet:
Whilft Vulcan and his Cyclops fweat,
And with loud Stroakes their maffy Anvils beat.
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