Formal slaves of art, avaunt!
This is Nature’s secret haunt:
The Genius of the landscape, I
Guard it, with a jealous eye—
Guard it, that no footstep rude
Upon her privacy intrude.
Here, with mystic maze, her throne
Is girt, accessible to none:
But to the highly-honour’d few
To whom I deign to lend my clue;
And chief to him, who in this grove,
Devotes his life to share her love:
From whom she seeks no charms to hide,
For whom she throws her veil aside,
Instructing him to spread abroad
Scenes for Salvator—or for Claude.
Far, oh far hence, let Brown and Eames
Zig-zag their walks, and torture streams!
But let them not my dells profane,
Or violate my Naiad train:
Nor let their arrogance invade
My meanest Dryad’s secret shade,
And with fantastic knots disgrace
The native honours of the place—
Making the vet’ran oak give way,
Some spruce exotic to display:
Their petty labours he defy’d,
Who Taste and Nature would divide!