Tale 29

Campos, ubi Troja fuit. Virg.Where Kensington high o'er the neighb'ring lands,'Midst greens and sweets, a regal fabrick stands,And sees each spring, luxuriant in her bowers,A snow of blossoms, and a wild of flowers,The dames of Britain oft in crowds repairTo groves and lawns, and unpolluted air.Here, while the town in damps and darkness lies,They breathe in sunshine, and see azure skies,Each walk, with robes of various dies bespread,Sees from afar a moving tulip-bed,Where rich brocades and glossy damasks glow,And chints, the rival of the showery bow.Here Englands daughter, darling of the land,Sometimes, surrounded with her virgin band,Gleams through the shades. She, towering o'er the rest,Stands fairest of the fairer kind confess'd,Form'd to gain hearts, that Brunswicks cause deny'd,And charm a people to her fathers side.Long have these groves to royal guests been known,Nor Nassau first preferr'd them to a throne.Ere Norman banners waved in British air,Ere lordly Hubba with the golden hairPour'd in his Danes; ere elder Julius came;Or Dardan Brutus gave our isle a name;A prince of Albions lineage graced the wood,The scene of wars, and stain'd with lovers blood.You, who through gazing crowds, your captive throng,Throw pangs and passions, as you move along,Turn on the left, ye fair, your radiant eyes,Where all unlevel'd the gay garden lies:If generous anguish for anothers painsEre heaved your hearts, or shiver'd through your veins,Look down attentive on the pleasing dale,And listen to my melancholy tale.That hollow space, where, now, in living rows,Line above line the yews sad verdure grows,Was, ere the planters hand its beauty gave,A common pit, a rude, unfashion'd cave;The landscape, now so sweet, we well may praise,But far, far sweeter in its ancient days,