With perfect symmetry design'd;
Consummate, like the donor's mind.

Illustrious Danby! splendid peer! Look downward from thy radiant sphere, The Muses' thanks propitious hear. When, Albion, will thy Nobles now, Such bounty to Minerva shew ?

There, where old Cherwell gently leads His humid train along the meads;

And courts fair Isis, but in vain,

Who laughs at all his amorous pain;
Away the scornful Naiad turns,

For younger Tamus Isis burns.

Close to those towers, so much renown'd For slavery lost and freedom found :

Where thy brave sons, in hapless days,
Wainfleet, to thy immortal praise,
Their rights municipal maintain'd
Submiss, not their allegiance stain'd :
To loyalty and conscience true;
Gave Caesar and Themselves their due;
Close to those towers, by Jove's command,
The gardens of Minerva stand.

There 'tis we see thee, Bobart, tend Thy favorite greens; from harms defend Exotic plants, which, finely bred

In softer soils, thy succour need ;
Whose birth far-distant countries claim,
Sent here in honor to thy name.

To thee the strangers trembling fly,

For shelter from our barbarous sky,
And murdering winds, that frequent blow,
With cruel drifts of rain or snow;
And dreadful ills, both Fall and Spring,
On alien vegetables bring.

Nor art thou less inclin'd to save,
Than they thy generous aid to crave:
But, with like pleasure and respect,
Thy darling tribe thou dost protect:
Lessen their fears, their hopes dilate,
And save their fragrant souls from fate:
While they, secure in health and peace,
Their covert and their guardian bless.

This makes thee rouze at prime of day, Thy doubtful nursery to survey: At noon to count thy flock with care, And in their joys and sorrows share, By each extreme unhappy made, Of too much sun, or too much shade; Be ready to attend their cry, And all their little wants supply; By day severest sentry keep,

By night sit by them as they sleep; .

With endless pain and endless pleasure,
As misers guard their hoarded treasure.
Till soft Favonius fans the flowers,

Breathes balmy dews, drops fruitful showers;
Favonius soft, that sweetly blows,

The Tulip paints, perfumes the Rose :
And, with the gentle Twins at play,
Brings in th' Elysian month of May.
Then boldly from their lodge you bring
Your guests, to deck our gloomy Spring.

Thrice happy Foreigners! to find
From Islanders such treatment kind:
Not only undisturb❜d to live,

But, by thy goodness, Bobart, thrive:
Grow strong, increase, their verdure hold,
As dwelling in their native mold.

The rest, who will no culture know,
But ceaseless curse our rains and snow :
A sickly, sullen, fretful race;

The gardener's and his art's disgrace;
Whom Bobart's self in vain does strive,
With all his skill to keep alive :
Which from beneath th' Æquator come,

In India's sultry forests bloom.

Of these, at least, since nature more
Denies t'encrease thy living store,

Their barks, or roots, their flowers, or leaves,

Thy Hortus Siccus still receives :

In tomes twice ten, that work immense !
By thee compil'd at vast expence ;
With utmost diligence amass'd,
And shall as many ages last.

And now, methinks, my Genius sees My Friend, amidst his plants and trees; Full in the center there he stands. Encircled with his verdant bands; Who all around obsequious wait, To know his pleasure, and their fate : His royal orders to receive, To grow, decay, to die, or live: That not the proudest kings can boast A greater, or more duteous, host.

Thou all that power dost truly know, Which they but dream of here below; Thy absolute despotic reign

Inviolably dost maintain,

Nor with ill-govern'd wrath affright
Thy people, or insult their right:
But, as thy might in greatness grows,
Thy mercy in proportion flows:
Nor they undutiful deny
What's due to lawful majesty ;

Safe in thy court from all the cares,
Domestic treasons, foreign wars

Which monarchs and their crowns perplex,
Whom factions still, or favorites vex.

But thou, on thy botanic throne,
Sit'st fearless, uncontrol'd, alone:
Thy realms in tumults ne'er involv'd,
Or, rising, are as soon dissolv'd:
Free from the mischiefs and the strife
Of a false friend, or fury wife:
And if a rebel slave, or son,
Audacious by indulgence grown,
Presumes above his mates to rise,
And their dull loyalty despise :
Thou, awful Sultan! with a look,
Canst all his arrogance rebuke;
And, darting one imperial frown,
Hurl the bold traitor headlong down:
His brethren, trembling at his fate,

Thy dread commands with reverence wait 1
Thy wondrous power and justice own,
And learn t' assert a tottering throne.

Thus, Kings that were in empire wise,
Rebellions early should chastise;
And give their clemency no time,
Betwixt th' offender and the crime,
With fatal eloquence to plead,
Which does more rebels only breed.
Bobart, to Kings thy rules commend,
For thou to Monarchs art a friend.