A poem by Francis Manning, published in 1701
To Sir Charles Duncombe
Unless Apollo should his aid refuse
Not your own trees can hide you from the Muse.
Your garden walls, so stately and so high,
In vain would shroud you from her piercing eye.
Your wood of greens, so various and so rare,
Of praise and wonder claims no common share.
Yet Sir, my muse so troublesome has grown
She slights those objects to seek you alone.
Your grotto, dazzling with such heaps of charms,
In vain would save you from her rude alarms,
The friendly glass spread o’er the shining space,
Redoubling all the lustre of the Place.
By kind reflections doth my search write,
And oh! how oft betrays thee to my sight.
Or dost thou fly, within thy mansion house,
Unwilling yet to take or give repose?
Here my persuing Muse (untired to find
The man she loves and shows her grateful mind)
At entrance starts to see the noble state
Of every room, where all the graces wait;
Struck with surprise she stops in her pursuit
Like Atalanta stooping for the fruit.
The ceilings shining with instructive paint,
Show all the art that Verio could invent.
Here Jove descended in a golden shower,
Eludes the force of bars and bolts and brazen tower;
Vain fences against gold and in that shape
Shoots through the Dame and makes a noble rape.
Another roof discloses to the sight
A club of jovial Gods in full delight,
Immortal Nectar seems to pass around
Whilst every dish is with ambrosia crowned.
Scarce without envy we their feast descry
But need not wish to be their guests on high
For whilst we view the false regale they make
Thy real dainties we at large partake.
The wainscott walls in various figures teach
The utmost skill, that Gibbons self could reach.
Those images of plenty which we find
Carved in the wood are emblems of your mind;
For that variety which they disclose,
Your constant hospitable table shows.
Such is the house, so pleasant and so neat
And if not great, it is how’er compleat,
And now departing hence my Muse espies
A lofty building graceful to the eyes
The regular figure makes a comely length
And the winged sides to Beauty furnish strength.
Here not without surprise your steeds we find
Tho’ yours are all the noblest of their kind.
The stately courser, simplest of the race,
Grown old in merit, keeps the formost place.
The sprightly hunters, next in worth succeed
Renowned for courage and their generous breed.
No sooner to the horns and dogs proclaim
Their masters order to persue the game.
But the true steeds, transported at the sound
Pick up their ears and snort and tear the ground,
Eager for sport their pliant limbs they strain,
And winged with emulation scour the plain.
Mad for the course and trembling not with fear
So the tall dogs persue the fleeing deer.
When through the paddock she conducts the race
The rivals stretch and foam and urge the chase.
Desire of victory doth their vigour feed
Strengthens their feet, and animatestheir speed.
Your little park stored with the fallow herd,
Much pleasure in the prospect doth afford
The haughty buck now strides it o’er the field
And now delights to make the female yield.
While the young fawns, unmindful of their love
Browse in the sun o’er the pasture rove.
At noon’s approach and to the lawns remove
All this you find within your window’s view
Nor is such innocence condemned by you.
Hail Tuddington ! Thou wondrous pleasant seat
Tho’ small in compass, thou in fame are great
What eyes did see within thy limits come
And pass away not wishing thee thy home?
So just is each proportion of thy frame
That all who view thee, do thy worth proclaim
Such charms within thy happy walls are found
That Kings have envied thy delightful ground:
And in a nice contempt of publick cares
Have wished thy master’s private state was theirs.
Here then enjoy thy life in safe retreat
The true distinction of the wise and great
Tempt not the various chances of an hour
Nor put thyself again in Fortune’s power.
In Courts and camps, she reigns in glittering state
There let the seeming wise her orders wait.
Be thou the sage Ulysees in thy choice
Trust not the tempting Syren’s fatal voice
But master of thyself remain secure;
Nor life nor all its joys can long endure.
The present moment use, ’tis all that’s ours
The next perhaps relentless Fate devours.
Langham Road 