Sidor som bilder

bitters too,

Was but to boast his own peculiar good,
Which all might view with envy, none partake.
My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets,
And the that sweetens all

Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form
And lineaments divine I trace á hand
That errs not, and find raptures still renew'd,
Is free to all men, universal prize.
Strange that so fair a creature should yet want
Admirers, and be destin d to divide
With meaner objects, ev'n the few she finds !
Stripp'd of her ornaments, her leaves and flow'rs,
She loses all her influence. Cities then
Attract us, and neglected Nature pines,
Abandon’d, as unworthy of our love.
But are not wholesome airs, though unperfum'd
By roses; and clear suns, though scarcely felt,

groves, if unharmonious, yet secure
From clamour, and whose very filence charms,
To be preferr’d to smoke, to the eclipse


That Metropolitan volcanos make, Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long; And to the stir of commerce, driving now, And thund'ring loud, with his ten thousand wheels ? They would be, were not madness in the head, And folly in the heart; were England now What England was, plain, hospitable, kind, And undebauch’d. But we have bid farewel To all the virtues of those better days, And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once Knew their own masters, and laborious hinds, Who had surviv'd the father; sery'd the son. Now the legitimate and rightful Lord Is but a transient guest, newly arriv'd, And soon to be supplanted. He that saw His patrimonial timber cast its leaf, Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again. Estates are landscapes; gaz'd upon awhile, Then advertis'd, and auctioneer'd away. Vol. II,



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The country starves, and they that feed th' o'ercharg'd
And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues,
By a just judgment ftrip and starve themselves.
The wings that waft our riches out of sight
Grow on the gamester's elbows, and th' alert
And nimble motion of those restless joints,
That never tire, foon fans them all away,
Improvement too, the idol of the age,

Is fed with many a victim. Lo! he comes-
The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears.
Down falls the venerable pile, th' abode
Of our forefathers, a grave

whisker'd race,
But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead,
But in a distant fpot ; where more expos’d,
It may enjoy th' advantage of the north,
And aguish east, till time shall have transformid
Those naked acres to a shelt'ring grove.
He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn,
Woods vanish, hills subside, and vallies rise,
And streams, as if created for his use,


Pursue the track of his directing wand,
Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now flow,
Now murm’ring soft, now roaring in cascades,
Ev'n as he bids. Th' enraptur’d owner smiles,
'Tis finish'd ; and yet, finish'd as it seems,
Still wants a grace, th' loveliest it could show,
A mine to satisfy th' enormous cost.
Drain’d to the last poor item of his wealth,
He fighs, departs, and leaves th' accomplish'd plan
That he has touch'd, retouch'd, many a long day
Labor’d, and many a night pursu'd in dreams,
Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the heav'n
He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy.
And now perhaps the glorious hour is come,
When, having no stake left, no pledge tendear
Her int’rests, or that gives her sacred cause
A moment's operation on his love,
He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal
To serve his country. Ministerial grace
Deals him out money from the public chest,

K 2


Or, if that mine be shut, some private purse
Supplies his need with an usurious loan,
To be refunded duly, when his vote,
Well-manag'd, shall have earn’d its worthy price.
Oh innocent, compar'd with arts like these,
Crape and cock'd pistol, and the whistling ball
Sent through the trav’ller's temples ! He that finds
One drop of heav'ns sweet mercy
Can dig, beg, rot, and perish well-content,
So he may wrap himself in honest rags
At his last gasp; but could not for a world

up his dirty and dependent bread
From pools and ditches of the commonwealth,
Sordid and fick’ning at his own success.

in his cup,

Ambition, av’rice, penury incurr'd By endless riot; vanity, the lust Of pleasure and variety, dispatch, As duly as the swallows disappear, The world of wand’ring knights and squires to town.


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