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TO MY FRIEND GILBERT NEVILLE, FROM WREST, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: I breathe, sweet ghib, the temperate air of wrest
Last Line: To keep the memory of our arms alive.
Subject(s): Country Life


I BREATHE, sweet Ghib, the temperate air of Wrest,
Where I no more, with raging storms oppress'd,
Wear the cold nights out by the banks of Tweed,
On the bleak mountains, where fierce tempests breed,
And everlasting Winter dwells; where mild
Favonius, and the vernal winds exil'd,
Did never spread their wings; but the wild North
Brings sterile fern, thistles, and brambles forth.
Here, steep'd in balmy dew, the pregnant earth
Sends from her teeming womb a flow'ry birth;
And, cherish'd with the warm sun's quick'ning heat,
Her porous bosom doth rich odours sweat;
Whose perfumes through the ambient air diffuse
Such native aromatics, as we use
No foreign gums, nor essence fetch'd from far,
No volatile spirits, nor compounds that are
Adulterate, but at Nature's cheap expense
With far more genuine sweets refresh the sense.
Such pure and uncompounded beauties bless
This mansion with an useful comeliness,
Devoid of art, for here the architect
Did not with curious skill a pile erect
Of carved marble, touch, or porphyry,
But built a house for hospitality;
No sumptuous chimney-piece of shining stone
Invites the stranger's eye to gaze upon,
And coldly entertains his sight, but clear
And cheerful flames cherish and warm him here;
No Doric or Corinthian pillars grace
With imagery this structure's naked face.
The lord and lady of this place delight
Rather to be in act, than seem in sight.
Instead of statues to adorn their wall,
They throng with living men their merry hall,
Where, at large tables fill'd with wholesome meats,
The servant, tenant, and kind neighbour eats.
Some of that rank, spun of a finer thread,
Are with the women, steward, and chaplain fed
With daintier cates; others of better note,
Whom wealth, parts, office, or the herald's coat
Have sever'd from the common, freely sit
At the lord's table, whose spread sides admit
A large access of friends to fill those seats
Of his capacious circle, fill'd with meats
Of choicest relish, till his oaken back
Under the load of pil'd up dishes crack.
Nor think, because our pyramids and high
Exalted turrets threaten not the sky,
That therefore Wrest of narrowness complains,
Or strait'ned walls; for she more numerous trains
Of noble guests daily receives, and those
Can with far more conveniency dispose,
Than prouder piles, where the vain builder spent
More cost in outward gay embellishment
Than real use; which was the sole design
Of our contriver, who made things not fine,
But fit for service. Amalthea's horn
Of plenty is not in effigy worn
Without the gate, but she within the door
Empties her free and unexhausted store.
Nor, crown'd with wheaten wreaths, doth Ceres stand
In stone, with a crook'd sickle in her hand;
Nor on a marble tun, his face besmear'd
With grapes, is curl'd unscissor'd Bacchus rear'd
We offer not in emblems to the eyes,
But to the taste, those useful deities;
We press the juicy god and quaff his blood,
And grind the yellow goddess into food.
Yet we decline not all the work of Art,
But where more bounteous Nature bears a part,
And guides her handmaid, if she but dispense
Fit matter, she with care and diligence
Employs her skill; for where the neighbour source
Pours forth her waters, she directs their course,
And entertains the flowing streams in deep
And spacious channels, where they slowly creep
In snaky windings, as the shelving ground
Leads them in circles, till they twice surround
This island mansion, which, i' th' centre plac'd,
Is with a double crystal heaven embrac'd;
In which our watery constellations float,
Our fishes, swans, our waterman and boat,
Envi'd by those above, which wish to slake
Their star-burnt limbs in our refreshing lake;
But they stick fast, nail'd to the barren sphere,
Whilst our increase in fertile waters here
Disport, and wander freely where they please
Within the circuit of our narrow seas.
With various trees we fringe the water's brink,
Whose thirsty roots the soaking moisture drink;
And whose extended boughs in equal ranks
Yield fruit, and shade, and beauty to the banks.
On this side young Vertumnus sits, and courts
His ruddy-cheek'd Pomona; Zephyr sports
On th' other with lov'd Flora, yielding there
Sweets for the smell, sweets for the palate here.
But did you taste the high and mighty drink
Which from that fountain flows, you 'ld clearly think
The God of Wine did his plump clusters bring
And crush the Falerne grape into our spring;
Or else, disguis'd in watery robes, did swim
To Ceres' bed, and make her big of him,
Begetting so himself on her: for know,
Our vintage here in March doth nothing owe
To theirs in Autumn, but our fire boils here
As lusty liquor as the sun makes there.
Thus I enjoy myself, and taste the fruit
Of this blest peace; whilst, toil'd in the pursuit
Of bucks and stags, th' emblem of war, you strive
To keep the memory of our arms alive.





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