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IV.

Yet oft, as penſive through theſe lawns I ſtray,

Unbidden tranſports through my boſome ſwell;
With pleaſing reverence awd mine eyes ſurvey
The hallowed ſhades where Spenser ſtrung his ſhell.
The brooke ſtill murmurs through the buſhy dell,
Still through the woodlands wild and beauteous riſe
The hills green tops; ſtill from her moſs-white cell
Complayning Echoe to the ſtockdove ſighs,
And Fancy, wandering here, ſtill feels new extacies.

V.

Then come, ye Genii of the place! O come,

Ye wilde-wood Muſes of the native lay!
Ye who theſe bancks did whilom conſtant roam,
And round your Spenser ever gladſom play!
Oh come once more! and with your magick ray
These lawns tranſforming, raiſe the myſtick ſcene——
The lawns already own your vertual ſway,
Proud citys riſe, with ſeas and wildes atweene;
In one enchanted view the various walks of men.