And mars one couplet in their happy lays, As at some ghost affrighted, start and stare, And ask the meaning of her coming there: For bards like these a wreath shall Mason[97] bring, Lined with the softest down of Folly's wing; In Love's pagoda shall they ever doze, And Gisbal[98] kindly rock them to repose; 70 My Lord ----, to letters as to faith most true-- At once their patron and example too-- Shall quaintly fashion his love-labour'd dreams, Sigh with sad winds, and weep with weeping streams;[99] Curious in grief (for real grief, we know, Is curious to dress up the tale of woe), From the green umbrage of some Druid's seat Shall his own works, in his own way, repeat. Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires, No judgment tempers when rash genius fires; 80 Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme, Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time; Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads, By prattling streams, o'er flower-empurpled meads; Who often, but without success, have pray'd For apt Alliteration's artful aid; Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill, Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill: Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit For pacing poesy, and ambling wit, 90 Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place Amongst the lowest of her favour'd race. Thou, Nature, art my goddess--to thy law Myself I dedicate! Hence, slavish awe! Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rules Imposed at first, and since observed by fools; Hence those vile tricks which mar fair Nature's hue, And bring the sober matron forth to view, With all that artificial tawdry glare Which virtue scorns, and none but strumpets wear! 100 Sick of those pomps, those vanities, that waste Of toil, which critics now mistake for taste; Of false refinements sick, and labour'd ease, Which art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please; By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) subdued, However plain her dress, and 'haviour rude, To northern climes my happier course I steer, Climes where the goddess reigns throughout the year; Where, undisturb'd by Art's rebellious plan, She rules the loyal laird, and faithful clan. 110 To that rare soil, where virtues clustering grow, What mighty blessings doth not England owe! What waggon-loads of courage, wealth, and sense, Doth each revolving day import from thence? To us she gives, disinterested friend! Faith without fraud, and Stuarts[100] without end. When we prosperity's rich trappings wear, Come not her generous sons and take a share? And if, by some disastrous turn of fate, Change should ensue, and ruin seize the state, 120 Shall we not find, safe in that hallow'd ground, Such refuge as the holy martyr[101] found?