The English Garden: a Poem. Book the First. By W. Mason, M.A., Volume 1

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J. Dodsley, 1778 - 35 pages

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Page 5 - Great Nature scorns control : she will not bear One beauty foreign to the spot or soil She gives thee to adorn : 'tis thine alone To mend, not change her features. . Does her hand Stretch forth a level lawn ? Ah, hope not thou To lift the mountain there. Do mountains frown •Around ? Ah, wish not there the level lawn.
Page 30 - I have said of the best forms of gardens is meant only of such as are in some sort regular; for there may be other forms wholly irregular, that may, for aught I know, have more beauty than any of the others; but they must owe it to some extraordinary dispositions of nature in the seat, or some great race of fancy or judgment in the contrivance, which may reduce many disagreeing parts into some figure, which shall yet upon the whole be very agreeable.
Page 27 - For all that nature by her mother wit Could frame in earth, and forme of substance base, Was there, and all that nature did omit, Art playing second natures part, supplyed it.
Page 22 - ... and sight, which I shall not need to describe (for that were poetical); let me only note this, that every one of these diversities was as if he had been magically transported into a new garden.
Page 4 - Now nearer home he calls returning Art To hide the structure rude where Winter pounds 95 In conic pit his congelations hoar, That Summer may his tepid beverage cool With the chill luxury ; his dairy too There...
Page 30 - I should hardly advise any of these attempts in the figure of gardens among us ; they are adventures of too hard achievement for any common hands ; and though there may be more honour if they succeed well, yet there is more dishonour if they fail, and it is twenty to one they will , whereas in regular figures it is hard to make any great and remarkable faults.
Page 22 - Want, alas ! Has o'er their little limbs her livery hung, In many a tatter'd fold, yet still those limbs Are shapely; their rude locks start from their brow, Yet, on that open brow, its dearest throne, Sits sweet Simplicity.
Page 1 - Throned on the heights of Skiddaw: call thy art To build her such a throne; that art will feel How vain her best pretensions. Trace her march Amid the purple crags of Borrowdale; And try like those to pile thy range of rock 30 In rude tumultuous chaos.
Page 33 - Still fofter than thy fong ; yet was that fong Nor rude, nor inharmonious, when attun'd To paftoral plaint, or tale of flighted love.

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