Yet where thou shin'st, like heav'n behind a cloud,
Moving like light, all piercing, tho' not loud;
The Muse shall find thee in thy blest retreat,
And breathe this honest wish at Cobham's feet:
Fresh as thy lakes, may all thy pleasures flow!
And breezy like thy groves, thy passions blow!
Wide as thy fancy, be thy spreading praise!
And long and lovely as thy walks, thy days!