Groves of Stowe VII

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An ancient Wood (upon whose topmost Bough

High-waving croaks the unauspicious Crow)

From hence its venerable Gloom extends,

Where, rivaling its lofty Height, ascends

The pointed Pyramid: This too is thine,

Lamented Vanbrugh! This thy last Design.

Among the various Structures, that around,

Form'd by thy Hand, adorn this happy Ground,

This, sacred to thy Memory shall stand:

Cobham, and grateful Friendship so command.

Nysean Bacchus next the Muse demands;

To Him, in yon high Grove, a Temple stands;

Where British Oaks their ancient Arms display,

Impervious to the Sun's unclouded Ray,

There, half-conceal'd, it rears its Rustick Head;

The painted Walls mysterious Orgies spread.

A jolly Figure on the Ceiling reels,

Whose every Nerve the potent Goblet feels:

His Vine-bound Brows bespeak him God of Wine,

The Cheeks, and swelling Paunch, O! [Rand] are thine.

[Rand] (not unknown to Phoebus is the Name)

Once felt the Fervour of a softer Flame;

When heedless Fortune shot the sudden Dart,

And unexpected Rapture seiz'd his Heart.

My faithful Verse this Secret shall reveal

Nor [Rand] himself shall blame the mirthful Tale.

 

 

Done