Canto I

Clifton, rich source of Heliconian stream!
Thou teeming topic! and thou lofty theme!
Where art, where nature leads the soul along,
And taste and commerce crown the copious song;
Where vast variety the heart expands,
And giving grandeur opens wide her hands;
With nature's noblest gifts regales the soul,
Each part a paradise—a heaven the whole!
Where health, where vigour quaffs the winnow'd air,
And drives far off the ugly fiend, Despair.

My muse, O CLIFTON! would thy summits climb,
And hand thy beauties down to latest time;
To ages yet unborn thy charms display,
In numbers lasting as the lamp of day;
Would Inspiration prompt my proud desire,
The song and subject should at once expire.

How epic wonders here the soul delight!
There, distant beauties strain th' impassion'd sight;
See rocks coeval with the world arise,
Whose cloud-swept groves seem waving in the skies;
By ages furrow'd deep, with time-plow'd mien,
With adverse frowns, with fractur'd foreheads seen,
Whilst Neptune rolls his rapid tides between.
See Wealth quick flying in the freighted gale,
See East, see West expand th' impatient sail;
Here earth, here ocean, mountains, rocks unite,
And in harmonious discord give delight;
There, princely piles in classic taste express'd,
In Grecian garb, in Roman grandeur dress'd,
A line of palaces o'erlook the town,
That with a jealous pride the prospect crown:
On different heights they stand in stately strife,
Like rank and dignity in moral life:
In various climax court th' attracted eyes,
The objects changing as the structures rise:
From pile to pile a prospect new appears,
And now the hills and now the river cheers.
See num'rous ships with sudden glance shoot by,
The sails and streamers only strike the eye:
Between th' embracing banks, for ever green,
They seem to move on land, their bulk unseen;
By glad propitious gales impatient blown,
With rapid speed and motion not their own.
See next a steeple on yon hill appear,
Yon distant hill, the Proteus of the year;
From whose oft-changing look, the watchful swain
Foretells the weather, and avoids the rain.
The blue aetherial hills see last uprise,
In azure robe to meet the bending skies.
Here pendent gardens with rich fruits appear,
The rip'ning bounty of the lavish year.
The temple rais'd above the group see sway,
And all th' extended various view survey.
Divine ambition in the choice is found,
Nay taste itself mark'd out the sacred ground;
With holy pride the lofty seat to shew,
And reign exulting o'er the world below;
Where some on others look with scornful phlegm,
Whilst others look with equal scorn on them;
With mole-hill malice dash the cup of life,
An inch in difference makes the mountain strife:
From proud comparison we quaff our all,
That source of human sweets, or human gall:
At which the restless soul impatient pants,
Begets her anguish, and creates her wants.
Oh frantic fallacy! oh brain-sick need!
Shall thy sleek beaver make my bosom bleed?
Thy better buckled belt make me repine,
Or if thy nails be closer cut than mine?
Shall I my lips with inward anguish bite,
If thy black kitten's tail be tipt with white?
Or if thy leeks than mine should greener grow,
And make thy fancied bliss, my real woe?
Envy in courts and cottages will dwell,
Nay climb to heaven itself, tho' born in hell:
In every living bosom lurks this pest,
But reigns unrival'd in the human breast;
On reason's throne usurps a thorny part,
And plants a thousand daggers in the heart.

The moral here and natural world we see,
In wise gradation, and in just degree:
Where all constructed for one system's sake,
A happy, heterogeneous prospect make:
Where reason's scale from class to class can fall,
And measure equal bounty dealt to all;
Each lot can justly prize, in fortune's wheel,
But not from what we have, but what we feel.

From moral strains, let my glad numbers soar,
And yon coincidence with speed explore:
Where strong extremes produce a striking taste,
A Gothic building by a Greek embrac'd:
In contrast kind, the feasted eye to fill,
And mark the summit of the social hill:
Where Goldney acts the meek, the moral part,
And daily works new miracles of art.
Where he like Moses makes the water flow,
His gold the rock obeys, but not his blow:
His gold, that conquers nature's hardest laws,
And fountains from the rocky center draws:
His well spent gold a two-fold transport gives,
The garden gladdens, and the labourer lives.
Such toils refresh at once the heart and head,
Give taste a banquet, and the rustic bread:
Make nature wonder at her thin-wove mask,
And truth survey her own transparent task.
The master's pleasure with th' improvement grows,
In all the rapture, that a parent knows:
When wise discretion weighs th' unerring coin,
And makes his pleasure with his prudence join.
Then sweet ambition bids the heart begin,
For genius feels a paradise within:
And tho' at first her task may seem too hard,
The accomplish'd wonder is its own reward.
Then fancy triumphs, when by judgment led,
And wears the well-earn'd wreath around her head:
Without a blush her own bright work surveys,
Improves the rapture, and enjoys the praise:
A new creation lifts the admiring lid,
Here nature looks abroad, here art lies hid:
O'er the grand form her mantle meek she flings,
But ornaments are arbitrary things:
Yet even there should fancy never stray,
From nature's path, or seek a wiser way;
Art is but nature in her best array.
With simple elegance she smiling stands,
In blameless garb, put on by Goldney's hands:
Him genius taught the tasteful eye to cheer,
With sober judgment whispering in his ear:
As wise discretion rules the realms of wit,
The happy medium here, he happy hit;
Where each bright incident performs its part,
With inward rapture melts the master's heart;
And each congenial guest with joy invades,
The fountains, grottos, and the clear cascades;
The tall parterres that lift the comely face,
And yield at once such majesty and grace,
With ev'ry growing beauty in its place.
A minor Stow on Clifton's crown we find,
In Epic meekness, like its master's mind.

Here buildings boast a robe, tho' rich yet chaste,
The robe of judgment, and of ripen'd taste:
Convenience here is mix'd with manly grace,
Yet ornament but holds the second place.
To human frames these structures seem akin,
With aspect fair, while reason rules within.
These domes discretion decks and fancy cheers,
Palladio's stile in Patty's plans appears:
Himself a master with the first to stand,
For Clifton owes her beauties to his hand.

Hence to the vale, by mountain rocks secur'd,
By nature's own immortal hand immur'd,
The vale, where skreen'd Avona sinks and swells,
That warping leads me to the hallow'd Wells,
I wander joyful, with unbounded glee,
From all I raptur'd hear, and raptured see:
To where sweet health her far-sought balm bestows,
And beauty with re-kindled fervor glows.
Above this fountain of supreme delight,
Two ponderous rocks surprize and please the sight:
With bending brows of nearer terms they treat,
Thro' countless ages essay'd oft to meet;
With grey address the tedious courtship con,
And wish the aerial arch would make them one:
The nuptial bridge sublime their brows would join,
Whilst Europe wonder'd at the work divine.
Blenheim should blush, tho' high her concave swells,
Nay Venice veil her bonnet to the Wells:
Her proud Rialto should no more appear,
But France and Italy come crowding here;
Can then ambition sleep when GLORY calls,
The MUSE herself shall help to raise the walls;
With Orphean sounds the work divine advance,
And make the willing stones in order dance;
Expand the joy-touch'd heart, enlarge the mind,
And Lacy leave one wonder more behind:
The groves on high their frequent nod bestow,
And earth and water give consent below;
Whilst ART stands ready with impatient hands,
But gold, demurring gold forbids the bands;
That scrupulous wight, whom lock'd-up souls adore,
He listens not, alas! to amorous lore,
Who many a noble match hath marr'd before.

The walks see full, see health disclose her hive,
Whilst all the neighbouring objects seem alive;
See bounty there her healing store unlocks,
Breathes all her vital veins, her genial rocks,
Distill'd by nature in her richest cell,
Where health sits brooding, and her offspring dwell;
With heaven in council deep, for mortal weal,
Where angels blend the balm, and bid it heal;
There love and beauty revel in the tide,
There grace and vigour wanton at their side;
That with more lustre make glad beauty glow,
Than all the diamonds orient realms bestow;
The cheek to vermil, and relume the eye,
And make disease that pallid fantom fly
From all his windings in the nerves and limbs,
When thro' the laxed tubes he lazy swims,
The sizy, creeping, tardy, torpid flood,
That long in hesitating lakes hath stood
With loaded bane to blast the balmy blood,
With pining atrophy, and spitting gore,
And all the wastings of the vital store;
With diabetes and its irksome train,
And life-consuming dews, and mental pain.
Here health expels disease, that deep-hid mole,
Winds up the body, and lets loose the soul,
Calls virtue home, with health, in exile still,
Revives th' affections, and awakes the will,
Bids love and friendship in the bosom play,
And drives each dark dissocial cloud away,

Here art and nature lift the patient up,
When learned ** guides the healing cup,
The lenient friend can smiling health restore,
When leeches frown, and cordials cure no more;
Would his lov'd Bath permit him oft to roam,
And make the wishing Wells his happy home;
With **'s balm his healing stores to blend,
And be to virtue, health, and each a friend;
Then virtue, health, their own glad growth, should see,
And like their friendships and their art agree.

Hail, health! thou harmony of parts and whole,
Thou sweet consent of body and of soul,
Who makes thy citadel the central heart,
And sends rich succours thence to every part;
Thro' aiding arteries, and vivid veins,
Thy virtue quickens, and thy vigour reigns;
The smallest parts remote they glad console,
The smallest parts return thee to the whole;
Thee, goddess, thee the grateful muse would sing,
And dip her deep in thy Castalian spring:
Hail, thou fountain fair, inspiring health,
Thou soul of rapture, and of reason's wealth;
Thou purest bliss, with least of life's alloy,
Content and thee, the crown of ev'ry joy;
If thou art absent, gold but grieves the more,
And kings look up with envy at the poor;
The scepter sickens, at the healthful spade,
And God maintains the equal law he made;
At Clifton long the languid spirit cheer,
And send thy vital cordials far and near,
And call from either pole the patient here.

The festive rooms their aiding balm bestow,
When music mingles with thy vital glow,
And dancing kindles up the lamp of joy,
Where care must never peep, nor pain annoy.
The ecchoing rooms, to grand proportion true,
The self-begetting sounds, the charming view,
The converse glowing, and the melting glance
Thro' all the mazes of th' inspiring dance,
Bid joy and vigour in the visage blend,
And love and friendship in the soul contend.

Thee, Lysaght, lovely as the summer rose;
On whom, in vain, the breath of envy blows;
Thee, Lysaght, thee, the muse would justly praise,
On that high theme would fain exalt her lays:
Thy beauty rises like the rising day,
And drives the clouds of malice far away;
The shafts of rancour at thy feet see fall,
Thy beauty blunts, thy virtue spurns them all;
Victorious in thy march, triumphant move,
Arm'd by each grace, each virtue, and each love;
These inmates firm, these bright, these strong allies,
Reign in thy soul, and conquer in thy eyes:
The muse ambitious would exalt her fame,
And graft her lawrel on thy envy'd name.

There Murray shines, that Caledonian star,
In her illustrious sphere belov'd from far:
She glads the glowing heart, she charms the eye,
Like Venus winding in her orb on high.

Laroche, distinguish'd in th' inchanting maze,
With ease, with beauty, born to melt and raise
The gazer's transport, and the poet's praise;
Bristol in her may boast a nymph divine,
And lot the offer'd incense now he mine.

Sweet Mosely there adorns the brilliant hand,
By graces molded, and by beauty's hand:
The finish'd frame a faultless shape can shew,
A face unhurt by beauty's greatest foe:
With tender hand he touch'd her radiant cheek,
Aw'd by her air divine, her presence meek;
His visit scarce the lovely virgin felt,
Her virtues made the tyrant's rage to melt,
He durst not hurt the shrine where angels dwelt.
Such beauties, health, are here thy sweet allies,
They charm at once the heart, the ears, the eyes.

Th' adjacent squares bestow their sheltering state,
With proud urbanity they willing wait,
Like city sheriffs at St. James's gate.

Ascend, my muse, on eagle pinions rise,
Wheel round the broad expanse, the joyful skies,
Survey th' enormous rocks, that high hang o'er,
The frighted billows, and the sounding shore,
And all the prospect on the wing explore.
Let all the landskip in my fancy live,
And numbers equal to the subject give;
On proud excursion wider stretch the wing,
And gather graces that at distance spring;
With richest fragrance make the wreath complete,
And lay it breathing, down at Berkley's feet.
Will he adopt the well-intended lays,
To Berkley sacred, and to virtue's praise?
Will Berkley lend the muse his powerful aid,
And graft her lays beneath his sheltering shade,
With fostering influence lift her laurel high,
From that illustrious stem to reach the sky?

What lofty mansion sudden strikes the sight!
With awful grandeur, and serene delight,
With princely air that lifts the head on high,
And reigns unrival'd o'er the heart and eye:
Whose candid mien, with manly welcome chears,
Whilst all the motto in the pile appears.
Another Windsor crowns th' exalted hill,
O'erwhelms the fancy, and absorbs the will,
With true magnificence elates the mind,
By time made awful, and by taste refin'd.

Thee, Stoke! th' ambitious muse, sincere would sing,
To Berkley's high domain her tribute bring;
His titled name for numbers is too hard,
The patriot, not the peer, excites the bard.
True British worth the honest muse would praise,
True British worth, not rank, deserves her lays.
Tho' honour's stamp, first minted for the best,
Is oft on dross, as well as gold impress'd;
In him the rank and sterling worth accord,
Intrinsic worth for once hath made a lord.
The insignia there let sharpest malice scan,
The title owes its value to the man:
True worth, and long roll'd down, his claim makes good,
Ennobled by his own and Beaufort's blood.

See, see, what sense, what taste with truth abound,
In every stately groupe and grove around,
With unaffected air and casual glance,
That look like nature, led by happy chance:
Where art seems vanish'd from the Epic space,
But leaves behind, her simple robe her grace;
In meek disguise, so rich and yet so plain,
O'erlook'd and lost in nature's nobler train:
To dress her mistress out, is all her part,
With pure simplicity and sparing art,
To give, not hide her, from the head and heart.

Behold the goddess stretch her lawful reign,
With polish'd scepter, o'er the hills and plain,
O'er the tall terrace and the vales preside,
Her scope magnificence, good-sense her guide;
With easy grandeur and untechnic mien,
In form a wood-nymph, but in state a queen.
How graceful there the gradual slopes incline!
Like bowing kings, or beauty's bending line:
There, Phoebus self from hill to hill might rove,
Might wake with heav'nly harp the vocal grove,
And Juno make the vale her rich alcove:
Such keeping there, such contrast bold we see,
There beauties differ most, there most agree.
With thee, lov'd Stoke! what rival can compare?
A country, not a garden strikes us there,
With native charms thy continent regales,
With more true grandeur than at proud Versailles;
Where fiction nature's loaded face belies,
With arbitrary masks, and false disguise;
Where simple truth, the child of guided chance,
Is lost in marvellous and vain romance:
There, magic miracles obedient stand,
As when some wizard waves his potent wand
With stroke astonishing makes wonder stare,
For Truth and Nature have no business there.

At Stoke, correct, see symbols list you, like
True classic epithets, that strongly strike
A manly character, and meaning round,
That mark and sanctify the story'd ground.
An awful vestige, reverend made by years,
A ruin there its shatter'd head uprears,
By taste imagin'd, with a moral eye,
Lo! there the Pyramid invades the sky:
Whilst heart-felt ornaments regale above,
The fragrant green-house and the genial grove,
By nature helmed with a gothic roof,
To ward the sun, in beauty's bright behoof,
And hold the rude insulting storms aloof.

See, prudence here and pleasure hand in hand,
Walk o'er the living lawns and fertile land:
The vallies rich, see, stock'd with stately steers,
Who look at distance like incamped deers:
Who grouping gaze among the vales and wood,
As erst the speckled long-neck'd nations stood,
For private ornament and public good.

Would gold and grandeur lift the lordly mind,
To wed with wealth the love of human-kind;
Would Britain copy Berkley's noble plan,
That friend to genius, and that friend to man:
Then title should unenvied honours spread
Around th' applauded patriot's sacred head;
The arts should flourish, and the poor have bread.