When Poesy, the Child of Zeal,
Who soothes each Pang, that Earth can feel,
Beheld, at wounded Nature’s call,
That Scene of Horror, Needwood’s Fall!
She said, in haste to yield Relief,
And calm the Mighty Mother’s Grief:
“Nature! dear Parent! Power divine!
Whose Joys and Griefs are truly mine!
To you my sympathy devotes
My chearful, and my plaintive Notes:
With Feelings not to be supprest,
I view your lacerated Breast;
This Waste of Ravages! where stood
Your Sylvan Wealth! your graceful Wood!
I cannot from the rifled Earth
Call into sudden, second Birth
The Forest, vanished from your sight,
Tho’ once your Pride! and my Delight!
But I can raise, in your Distress,
A Charm, that scarce will soothe you less;
Behold this Proof of my Regard,
In Needwood’s fascinating Bard!
He, whom our blended Gifts engage
To sing, with youthful Fire, in age,
He, Needwood! by whose Breath you live,
Gives you, whatever Verse can give;
He makes immortal, in his Songs,
Your Beauties all, and all your Wrongs:
His Verse displays a deathless Charm,
That foils the Force of Havoc’s Arm;
Age after Age, while Nymphs are found
To breathe Delight on English Ground,
The grateful Dryads will admire
The Magic of their Mundy’s Lyre;
And boast the Wood, he lov’d to praise,
For ever verdant in his Lays.