Do you ask me of Bolton its rocks, woods, and plains, Where beauty enthron'd in sublimity reigns? Where the Wharfe ever lovely, capricious, romantic, Or murmuring glides or impetuously frantic, Now spreads o'er the plain in majestic repose, Now rending the rocks as a cataract flows? Or enquire of the Priory whose ruins sublime, Shew beauties more soft from the pressure of time, And as their fine forms moulder gently away, Awake veneration and love from decay? Of Bardon's fine tow'r which proudly excelling, The Genius of Craven might choose for his dwelling, (For Genii and Fairies alone should be found, To people the regions celestial around, 1084 While a Demon of darkness might howl o'er the Strid, And lash the fierce torrent that roar'd as he chid,) Yes this is the region for fancy to soar, Meditation to rove and devotion adore, For the painter's whole soul to exist in his eye, And the poet's on pinions new plumag'd to fly! But alas tho' each charm I could quickly discover, Yet expect no description but _one_ from a lover, If to tell of the Abbey's grey stones I begin, I shall surely contrast them with Agnes's skin; From the rock herbage-crown'd all bespangled with dew, I shall start to her eye's melting orbit of blue; Nor a wave of the river can flow wildly simple, But Agnes will rise with her smile and her dimple, So aware of my weakness I make no pretension, To give you description supply'd by invention, But I've bought a whole set of fine prints which will prove, That Bolton is meet for the birth place of love. And in them I will shew you dear mother, those places, The smiles of my fair one illum'd with new graces, And when I'm so blest (may the time quickly come,) To bring the sweet maid to a Derbyshire home, These pictures hung round the old hall shall display, How dear to my heart are the scenes they pourtray, And Agnes methinks "nothing loth" will behold, The spot where my passion first dar'd to unfold, And fondly will point to that bank where the willow, Re-murmur'd my vows as it bent to the billow.-- "Dear Bolton adieu!" we all cried while returning, "Whoe'er left thy glen's lovely vale without mourning." When just as we spoke the fair rectory rose, Like the dwelling of peace in the lap of repose, We started with pleasure astonish'd to find, Such a Paradise close on the Eden behind, There Pomona's rich clusters hung sportively round, And Flora's gay carpet enamell'd the ground. As enchanted we gaz'd the kind owner appearing, Address'd us with manners politely endearing, And much we regretted the shadows of eve, Oblig'd us reluctantly soon to take leave. 1124