Elegy XXI. Taking a view of the country from his retirement, he is led to meditate on the character of the ancient Britons. Written at the time of a rumoured tax upon luxury, 1746

THUS Damon sung—What tho' unknown to praise
Umbrageous coverts hide my Muse and me,
Or 'mid the rural shepherds flow my days?
Amid the rural shepherds I am free.

To view sleek vassals crowd a stately hall,
Say, should I grow myself a solemn slave?
To find thy tints, O Titian! grace my wall,
Forego the flow'ry fields my fortune gave?

Lord of my time, my devious path I bend
Thro' fringy woodland or smooth-shaven lawn,
Or pensile grove or airy cliff ascend,
And hail the scene by Nature's pencil drawn.

Thanks be to Fate—tho' nor the racy vine,
Nor fatt'ning olive clothe the fields I rove,
Sequester'd shades and gurgling founts are mine,
And ev'ry silvan grot the Muses love.

Here if my vista point the mould'ring pile,
Where hood and cowl Devotion's aspect wore,
I trace the tott'ring reliques with a smile,
To think the mental bondage is no more.

Pleas'd if the glowing landscape wave with corn,
Or the tall oaks, my country's bulwark, rise;
Pleas'd if mine eye, o'er thousand vallies borne,
Discern the Cambrian hills support the skies.

And see Plinlimmon! ev'n the youthful sight
Scales the proud hill's ethereal cliffs with pain!
Such, Caer-Caradoc! thy stupendous height,
Whose ample shade obscures th' Iernian main.

Bleak, joyless regions! where, by Science fir'd,
Some prying sage his lonely step may bend;
There, by the love of novel plants inspir'd,
Invidious view the clamb'ring goats ascend.

Yet for those mountains, clad with lasting snow,
The freeborn Briton left his greenest mead,
Receding sullen from his mightier foe,
For here he saw fair Liberty recede.

Then if a chief perform'd a patriot's part,
Sustain'd her drooping sons, repell'd her foes,
Above or Persian luxe or Attic art
The rude majestic monument arose.

Progressive ages caroll'd forth his fame,
Sires to his praise attun'd their children's tongue,
The hoary Druid fed the gen'rous flame,
While in such strains the rev'rend wizard sung:

" Go forth, my Sons!—for what is vital breath,
" Your gods expell'd, your liberty resign'd?
" Go forth, my Sons!—for what is instant death
" To souls secure perennial joys to find?

" For scenes there are, unknown to war or pain,
" Where drops the balm that heals a tyrant's wound;
" Where patriots, bless'd with boundless freedom, reign,
" With misletoe's mysterious garlands crown'd.

" Such are the names that grace your mystic songs,
" Your solemn woods resound their martial fire;
" To you, my Sons! the ritual meed belongs,
" If in the cause you vanquish or expire.

" Hark! from the sacred oak that crowns the groves
" What awful voice my raptur'd bosom warms!
" This is the favour'd moment Heav'n approves,
" Sound the shrill trump; this instant sound, to arms."

Theirs was the science of a martial race,
To shape the lance or decorate the shield;
Ev'n the fair virgin stain'd her native grace
To give new horrors to the tented field.

Now for some cheek where guilty blushes glow,
For some false Florimel's impure disguise,
The listed youth nor War's loud signal know,
Nor Virtue's call, nor Fame's imperial prize.

Then, if soft concord lull'd their fears to sleep,
Inert and silent slept the manly car,
But rush'd horrific o'er the fearful steep,
If Freedom's awful clarion breath'd to war.

Now the sleek courtier, indolent and vain,
Thron'd in the splendid carriage, glides supine,
To taint his virtue with a foreign strain,
Or at a fav'rite's board his faith resign.

Leave then, O Luxury! this happy soil;
Chase her, Britannia! to some hostile shore;
Or fleece the baneful pest with annual spoil,
And let thy virtuous offspring weep no more.