On his first arrival at The Leasowes, 1754

"How shall I fix my wand'ring eye? where find
The source of this enchantment? Dwells it in
The woods? or waves there not a magic wand
O'er the translucent waters? Sure, unseen,
Some fav'ring power directs the happy lines
That sketch these beauties; swells the rising hills,
And scoops the dales to Nature's finest forms,
Vague, undetermin'd, infinite; untaught
By line or compass, yet supremely fair!"
So spake Philenor, as with raptur'd gaze
He travers'd Damon's farm: from distant plains
He sought his friend's abode; nor had the fame
Of that new-form'd Arcadia reach'd his ear.
And thus the swain, as o'er each hill and dale,
Thro' lawn or thicket, he pursu'd his way:
What is it gilds the verdure of these meads
With hues more bright than Fancy paints the flowers
Of Paradise? What Naïad's guiding hand
Leads, thro' the broider'd vale, these lucid rills,
That, murm'ring as they flow, bear melody
Along their banks, and thro' the vocal shades
Improve the music of the woodland choir?
What pensive Dryad rais'd yon' solemn grove,
Where minds contemplative, at close of day
Retiring, muse o'er Nature's various works,
Her wonders venerate, or her sweets enjoy?—
What room for doubt? some rural deity,
Presiding, scatters o'er th' unequal lawns,
In beauteous wildness, yon' fair-spreading trees,
And, mingling woods and waters, hills and dales,
And herds and bleating flocks, domestic fowl,
And those that swim the lake, sees rising round
More pleasing landscapes than in Tempe's vale
Penéus water'd. Yes, some sylvan god
Spreads wide the varied prospect, waves the woods,
Lifts the proud hills, and clears the shining lakes,
While, from the congregated waters pour'd,
The bursting torrent tumbles down the steep
In foaming fury: fierce, irregular,
Wild, interrupted, cross'd with rocks and roots
And interwoven trees; till, soon absorb'd,
An opening cavern all its rage entombs.
So vanish human glories! such the pomp
Of swelling warriors, of ambitious kings,
Who fret and strut their hour upon the stage
Of busy life, and then are heard no more!
Yes, 'tis enchantment all—And see! the spells,
The pow'rful incantations, magic verse,
Inscrib'd on ev'ry tree, alcove, or urn.—
Spells!—Incantations!—Ah! my tuneful Friend!
Thine are the numbers, thine the wonderous work!—
Yes, great Magician! now I read thee right,
And lightly weigh all sorcery but thine.
No Naïad's leading step conducts the rill,
Nor sylvan god presiding skirts the lawn
In beauteous wildness, with fair-spreading trees,
Nor magic wand has circumscrib'd the scene:
'Tis thine own taste, thy genius that presides,
Nor needs there other deity, nor needs
More potent spells than they."—No more the swain,
For, lo! his Damon, o'er the tufted lawn
Advancing, leads him to the social dome.