YE green-rob'd Dryads, oft' at dusky eve
By wondering shepherds seen, to forests brown,
To unfrequented meads, and pathless wilds,
Lead me from gardens deck'd with art's vain pomps.
Can gilt alcoves, can marble-mimic gods,
Parterres embroider'd, obelisks, and urns
Of high relief; can the long, spreading lake,
Or vista lessening to the sight; can Stow,
With all her Attic fanes, such raptures raise,
As the thrush-haunted copse, where lightly leaps
The fearful fawn the rustling leaves along,
And the brisk squirrel sports from bough to bough,
While from an hollow oak, whose naked roots
O'erhang a pensive rill, the busy bees
Hum drowsy lullabies? The bards of old,
Fair Nature's friends, sought such retreats, to charm
Sweet Echo with their songs; oft' too they met
In summer evenings, near sequester'd bow'rs,
Or mountain-nymph, or muse, and eager learnt
The moral strains she taught to mend mankind.
As to a secret grot Aegeria stole
With patriot Numa, and in silent night
Whisper'd him sacred laws, he list'ning sat
Rapt with her virtuous voice, old Tyber lean'd
Attentive on his urn, and hush'd his waves.