The Grove. 1675

HOw am I in an instant blest?
This Grove affords some chearful Guest,
A stranger to my wounded breast.

But how can Musick there be found,
Where daunting cares have made a wound?
Yet breaking Heart-strings yield a sound.

But now my Crest-fall'n thoughts aspire;
As Saul's black humours did retire,
Before the twangs of David's lire.

Verse has such charms, It can advance
A captive Soul from hellish Trance,
Can bridle Dolphins, make Beasts dance.

But stay, I doubt this boasted grace
Denies its rise from my dull layes;
And owes its Being to this place.

As Priests of old were not inspir'd,
Their breasts with sacred heat ne'r fir'd,
'Till they into their Groves retir'd.

Nor came this Virtue from the Trees,
Nor from the Prophet's Rapsodies,
But from the Neighb'ring Deities.

None views this Grove but soon allows
It is a Temple roof'd with Boughs;
Where faithful Lovers pay their Vows.

And that betwixt the Leaves, those spaces
(Through which the prying Sun-shine passes)
Seem quarter'd Panes of Chrystal Glasses.

Then Nature here each year does bring
The sweet-tongu'd Black-coats of the Spring,
With other Choristers to sing.

Who to this service are ordain'd,
From its Revenues are maintain'd,
With Berries from the Bushes gain'd.

Yet if you take a neerer view,
The Simile will seem more true;
This Temple has its Scriptures too.

Upon the Barks, with curious slit,
Devotion is ingrav'd with Wit,
And by some Goddess Fingers writ.

Whose adoration, merit, fame,
Shall still inlarge, as does the Name,
Which thrives till it out-grows the frame.

Nor do the Trees confus'dly stand;
But rank'd, and fil'd as they were trayn'd
By the Commanders skilful hand.

Each row of sturdy Oaks appears
Squadrons of English Musketeers;
The Acorns Shot, Leaves Bandileers.

Those stands of Ashes strongly spread,
Like our stout Pike men, void of dread;
With Keys, like Fringe about each head.

Here Elms: whose bending Boughs retain
The shapes of our old Bows in vain;
Never to conquer France again.

Those Aspen-trees, like French, look high;
As they would scale the very sky;
Yet shake, whilst English Elms are by.

The Willows here like Dutchmen show;
All sap, not good for Pyke or Bow;
And only will by Waters grow.

Thrice happy Trees, where future times
(Not clouded with our present crimes)
Shall in their Barks read am'rous rhymes.

For who can greater Wit desire
Than that, which Beauty does inspire?
Verse then is cloath'd in Queens attire.

It needs must be a happy sight,
The golden age did first delight
All Verse in Rynds of Trees to write.

Tho Bayes and Lawrels still abound,
Nobler rewards will then be found;
They'l with their Ladies Names be crown'd.

Each then must lofty numbers frame,
Whilst she thereto subscribes her Name;
'T will be at once, Reward and Theme.

If I that happy fate could prove,
Incourag'd by those Eyes I love;
This should out-vye Dodona's Grove.

But as I first with cares were crost;
These thoughts have so my Soul ingrost,
That I am in this Laby'rinth lost.

When loe! as I did gaze about,
I saw a Path, which (without doubt)
As't leades them in, will lead me out.

With Lady-Smocks, and Dayes-Eyes white;
The very Path they tread are bright:
So the Sun's tracks are pav'd with Light.