What, tho' far from silver Thames,
Stately piles, and courtly dames?
Here we boast a purer flood,
Joys that stream from sprightly blood;
Here is simple beauty seen,
Fair, and cloath'd like beauty's queen:
Nature's hands the garbs compose,
From the lilly and the rose.
Or, if charm'd with richer dies,
Fancy every robe supplies.
Shou'd perchance some high-born fair,
Absent, claim thy tender care;
Here, enraptur'd shalt thou trace,
S—'s shape, and R—'s face;
While the waking dream shall pay,
Many a wishing hopeless day.
Domes with gold and toil unbought,
Rise by magick pow'r of thought,
Where by artist's hand undrawn,
Slopes the vale, and spreads the lawn;
As if sportive nature meant,
Here to mock the works of Kent.