Clear was the morn, that saw me, pensive, leave,
Pellucid Calwick, thy umbrageous scene;
Morn, that beheld the sigh repining heave,
And eyes unjoyous meet the blue serene.
But had those eyes beheld the azure day
Mild in thy large and watry mirror shine,
A glance more lively then had hail’d its ray,
A lighter heart confess’d its power benign.
Written Sept. 1786, after a fortnight’s residence at Calwick, the seat
of the Granville family, in Staffordshire. It stands on the verge of a
large, clear, and beautiful lake, with islands. A branch of the river
Dove passes through it, and a rich valley forms the scenery on the
opposite coast, through which the main river winds. It is bounded by
near hills, and beyond them are seen some of the larger Peak mountains.
A wood rises behind the house.
Yet, though no sunny skies illumed the hours,
Pass’d, honour’d GRANVILLE, in thy spacious dome,
Though winds incessant howl’d around thy bowers,
Troubled thy lake, and lash’d it into foam;
Though, with eternal rains, the silver Dove
Rush’d, swell’d and turbid, down thy beauteous vale,
Yet did the friends, yet did the life I love
Deride the watry skies, the stormy gale.
Thy charming HARRIET, to my heart how dear!
Still in that heart her graceful image lives;
Still do I seem her gentle voice to hear,
Still feel the glow her cheerful kindness gives.
Ah! when your mutual praise my strains pursu’d,
And his, to whom those strains allegiance own,
DEWES, the refin’d, the learn’d, the wise, the good,
On a self-doubting mind it warmly shone.
Beneath thy walls, each elegant delight,
By knowledge, taste, and sentiment bestow’d,
Rose on the spirit, in succession bright,
Till each pale day in mental sunshine glow’d.
Thro’ her dim showers, half shrouding vale, and lawn,
I saw, dear GRANVILLE, that no fairer shades,
For Lansdown, in poetic tints were drawn,
No clearer waters, and no greener glades;
When, at thy noble ancestor’s request,
Who led sweet POPE his forest-haunts among,
They rose, in soft, Aonian graces drest,
To bloom for ever in unrivall’d song.
The blended charms thy crystal scene supplies,
Had my weak muse an equal power to trace,
On Poesy’s bright texture soon should rise
Its sylvan charms, in undecaying grace.
But ah! I may not hope she can display
The splendid web the Bard of Windsor wove,
Yet, for his Granville, no sincerer lay
Breath’d Friendship’s ardour thro’ the vocal grove.
Connubial and parental bliss is thine,
O! may they prove as permanent as sweet!
And be the voice of gratulation mine
Whene’er I hail thee in thy green retreat!