Pope is in most instances singularly happy in his compliments, but the allusion to STOWE—­as “a work to wonder at”—­has rather an equivocal appearance, and so also has the mention of Lord Cobham, the proprietor of the place.  In the first draught of the poem, the name of Bridgeman was inserted where Cobham’s now stands, but as Bridgeman mistook the compliment for a sneer, the poet thought the landscape-gardener had proved himself undeserving of the intended honor, and presented the second-hand compliment to the peer.  The grounds at Stowe, more praised by poets than any other private estate in England, extend to 400 acres.  There are many other fine estates in our country of far greater extent, but of less celebrity.  Some of them are much too extensive, perhaps, for true enjoyment.  The Earl of Leicester, when he had completed his seat at Holkham, observed, that “It was a melancholy thing to stand alone in one’s country.  I look round; not a house is to be seen but mine.  I am the Giant of Giant-castle and have ate up all my neighbours.”  The Earl must have felt that the political economy of Goldsmith in his Deserted Village was not wholly the work of imagination.

Sweet smiling village!  Loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant’s hand is seen And desolation saddens all the green,—­ One only master grasps thy whole domain.

* * * * *

    Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside,
    To scape the pressure of contiguous pride?

“Hearty, cheerful Mr. Cotton,” as Lamb calls him, describes Stowe as a Paradise.

ON LORD COBHAM’S GARDEN.

    It puzzles much the sage’s brains
    Where Eden stood of yore,
    Some place it in Arabia’s plains,
    Some say it is no more.

But Cobham can these tales confute,
As all the curious know;
For he hath proved beyond dispute,
That Paradise is STOWE.

Thomson also calls the place a paradise: 

            Ye Powers
    That o’er the garden and the rural seat
    Preside, which shining through the cheerful land
    In countless numbers blest Britannia sees;
    O, lead me to the wide-extended walks,
    The fair majestic paradise of Stowe!
    Not Persian Cyrus on Ionia’s shore
    E’er saw such sylvan scenes; such various art
    By genius fired, such ardent genius tamed
    By cool judicious art, that in the strife
    All-beauteous Nature fears to be out-done.

The poet somewhat mars the effect of this compliment to the charms of Stowe, by making it a matter of regret that the owner

            His verdant files
    Of ordered trees should here inglorious range,
    Instead of squadrons flaming o’er the field,
    And long embattled hosts.

This representation of rural pursuits as inglorious, a sentiment so out of keeping with his subject, is soon after followed rather inconsistently, by a sort of paraphrase of Virgil’s celebrated picture of rural felicity, and some of Thomson’s own thoughts on the advantages of a retreat from active life.