Upon The Hill And Grove At Bill-borow

2See how the arched Earth does here

3Rise in a perfect Hemisphere!

4The stiffest Compass could not strike

5A line more circular and like;

6Nor softest Pensel draw a Brow.

7So equal as this Hill does bow.

8It seems as for a Model laid,

9And that the World by it was made.

10Here learn ye Mountains more unjust,

11Which to abrupter greatness thrust,

12That do with your hook-shoulder'd height

13The Earth deform and Heaven frght.

14For whose excrescence ill design'd,

15Nature must a new Center find,

16Learn here those humble steps to tread,

17Which to securer Glory lead.

18See what a soft access and wide

19Lyes open to its grassy side;

20Nor with the rugged path deterrs

21The feet of breathless Travellers.

22See then how courteous it ascends,

23And all the way ir rises bends;

24Nor for it self the height does gain,

25But only strives to raise the Plain.

26Yet thus it all the field commands,

27And in unenvy'd Greatness stands,

28Discerning furthe then the Cliff

29Of Heaven-daring Teneriff.

30How glad the weary Seamen hast

31When they salute it from the Mast!

32By Night the Northern Star their way

33Directs, and this no less by Day.

34Upon its crest this Mountain grave

35A Plum of aged Trees does wave.

36No hostile hand durst ere invade

37With impious Steel the sacred Shade.

38For something alwaies did appear

39Of the Great Masters terrour there:

40And Men could hear his Armour still

41Ratling through all the Grove and Hill.

42Fear of the Master, and respect

43Of the great Nymph did it protect;

44Vera the Nymph that him inspir'd,

45To whom he often here retir'd,

46And on these Okes ingrav'd her Name;

47Such Wounds alone these Woods became:

48But ere he well the Barks could part

49'Twas writ already in their Heart.

50For they ('tis credible) have sense,

51As we, of Love and Reverence,

52And underneath the Courser Rind

53The Genius of the house do bind.

54Hence they successes seem to know,

55And in their Lord's advancement grow;

56But in no Memory were seen

57As under this so streight and green.

58Yet now no further strive to shoot,

59Contented if they fix their Root.

60Nor to the winds uncertain gust,

61Their prudent Heads too far intrust.

62Onely sometimes a flutt'ring Breez

63Discourses with the breathing Trees;

64Which in their modest Whispers name

65Those Acts that swell'd the Cheek of Fame.

66Much other Groves, say they, then these

67And other Hills him once did please.

68Through Groves of Pikes he thunder'd then,

69And Mountains rais'd of dying Men.

70For all the Civick Garlands due

71To him our Branches are but few.

72Nor are our Trunks enow to bear

73The Trophees of one fertile Year.

74'Tis true, the Trees nor ever spoke

75More certain Oracles in Oak.

76But Peace (if you his favour prize)

77That Courage its own Praises flies.

78Therefore to your obscurer Seats

79From his own Brightness he retreats:

80Nor he the Hills without the Groves,

81Nor Height but with Retirement loves.