here, the Muse shall build thy Seat,
Great like thy , in ev'ry Part complete:
On this fair Eminence the  stands,
The finish'd Labour of a thousand Hands;
The , the , the  and ,
Vary the , which thy  yields;
Whole  of  give our Eyes Delight,
Yet scorn alone to gratify the ;
Beneath the Load the tender Branch shall bend,
And the rich Juice regale its .
Thy Taste refin'd appears in yonder Wood,
Not  tortur'd, but by  improv'd:
Where  with  meet,
An  here, and there a .
A thousand Sweets in mingled Odours flow
From blooming , which on the Borders grow.
In num'rous Streams the murm'ring Waters thrill,
Uniting all, obedient to thy Will;
Till by thy Art, in  combin'd,
They thro' the  in various  wind;
From thence the foaming Waves fall rapid down,
In bold , and lash the rugged Stone.
But here their Fury lost, the calmer Scene
Delights the softer Muse, and Soul serene;
An ample , Center of the Place,
In Lymph transparent holds the scaly Race;
Its glassy Face, from ev'ry Ruffle free,
Reflects the Image of each neighb'ring Tree;
On which the , melodious, throng,
By Love inspir'd, unite in tuneful Song;
Their tuneful Song the echoing  resound,
And falling  add a solemn Sound,
Sure this the Muses haunt; 'tis hallow'd Ground!
Here could the Muse for ever spend her Days,
And chant, in humble Rhymes, the Owner's Praise,
How by his Art, young  shall no more
Her  Letter lost, with Sighs deplore,
Unjustly jealous of her faithful Swain,
Whilst he expects the kind Return in vain.
How from the Mountain's rocky Sides he drew
A thousand shining Palaces to view:
, and  in ev'ry Land,
From Age to Age, his Monuments shall stand.
itself shall die, and fickle ,
When he is dead, do Justice to his Name.
Had I or  Wing, or  Fire;
true Greatness, or soft Lyre;
Could I, like tuneful , command the ;
Did my Verse flow, and as it flows, refine;
Thus would I sing; but O, with Grief I find
My feeble Pen but faintly paints my Mind!
Myself unequal to the great Design,
The Task to abler Poets I resign.