Whate'er delights the verdant field,
The grove, and mossy fountain yield;
Whate'er the gentle, blooming spring,
Or summer in their glory bring;
Let them all conspire to bless
Belinda, in her soft recess.
All ye tuneful feather'd throng,
Salute her in your artless song.
Ye Zephyrs flying thro' the vales,
Meet her with your fragrant gales,
Ye purling brooks, indulge her sleep,
And gently by your borders creep.
Whene'er she wanders o'er the green,
Let all Arcadia there be seen.
May the charming visions rise,
That dance before the poet's eyes,
When the solitary muse
Does rural shades its subject chuse;
While nymphs, like Stairs, adorn the scene,
Graceful, like her's, their looks and mien.

Hence ye gilded toys of state,
Ye formal follies of the great,
Nor e'er disturb this peaceful seat.
No sound of faction hither fly,
Ambition, hate, or jealousy.
No envious tattle enter here,
That wrongs the innocent and fair:
But let the graces and the loves
Wander round these gentle groves,
And banish from Belinda's breast,
Whatever may her joys molest;
While here she finds that soft repose,
Which from virtue only flows.