Like bombast now thy raging billows roar, And vainly dash themselves against the shore; 55 About like quibbles now thy froth is thrown, And all extremes are in a moment shown. Snatch me, ye gods! from these Atlantic shores, And shelter me in Windsor's fragrant bow'rs; Or to my much loved Isis' walks convey, 60 And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay. Thence let me view the venerable scene, The awful dome, the groves' eternal green: Where sacred Hough[12] long found his famed retreat, And brought the muses to the sylvan seat, 65 Reformed the wits, unlocked the classic store, And made that music which was noise before. There with illustrious bards I spent my days Nor free from censure, nor unknown to praise, Enjoyed the blessings that his reign bestowed, 70 Nor envied Windsor in the soft abode. The golden minutes smoothly danced away, And tuneful bards beguiled the tedious day: They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fired That Maro taught, or Addison inspired. 75 Ev'n I essayed to touch the trembling string: Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing? Roused from these dreams by thy commanding strain, I rise and wander through the field or plain; Led by thy muse, from sport to sport I run, 80 Mark the stretched line, or hear the thund'ring gun. Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy On the cold earth the flutt'ring pheasant lie; His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear, And ev'ry feather shines and varies there. 85 Nor can I pass the gen'rous courser by, } But while the prancing steed allures my eye, } He starts, he's gone! and now I see him fly } O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course, Nor can the rapid sight pursue the flying horse. 90 O could thy Virgil from his orb look down, He'd view a courser that might match his own! Fired with the sport, and eager for the chase, Lodona's murmurs stop me in the race. Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale? 95 The soft complaint shall over time prevail; The tale be told, when shades forsake her shore, The nymph be sung, when she can flow no more. Nor shall thy song, old Thames! forbear to shine, At once the subject and the song divine; 100 Peace, sung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more Than all their shouts for victory before. Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream, The world should tremble at her awful name: From various springs divided waters glide, 105 In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide, Murmur along their crooked banks awhile, At once they murmur and enrich the isle;