Sidor som bilder

And constant occupation without care.
Thus blest, I draw a picture of that bliss;
Hopeless, indeed, that dissipated minds,
And profligate abusers of a world
Created fair so much in vain for them,
Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe,
Allur'd by my report: but fure no less,
That, self-condemn'd, they must neglect the prize,
And what they will not tafte must yet approve.
What we admire we praise; and, when we praise,
Advance it into notice, that, its worth
Acknowledg'd, others may admire it too.
I therefore recommend, though at the risk
Of popular disguft, yet boldly still,
The cause of piety and sacred truth,
And virtue, and those scenes which God ordain'd
Should best secure them and promote them moft;
Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive
Forsaken, or through folly not enjoy'd.
Pure is the nymph, though lib’ral of her smiles,
And chaste, though unconfin'd, whom I extol.
Not as the prince in Shushan, when he callid,
Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth
To grace the full pavilion. His defign

Was but to boast his own peculiar good,
Which all' might view with envy, none partake.
My charmer is not mine alone; my fweets,
And she that sweetens all my bitters too,
Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form
And lineaments divine I trace a hand
That errs not, and find raptures still renew'd,
Is free to all men universal prize.
Strange that fo 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 rofes; and clear suns, though scarcely felt;
And groves, if unharmonious, yet secure
From clamour, and whose very silence charms,
To be preferr'd to smoke, to the eclipse
That Metropolitan volcanos make,
Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day

And to the ftir of commerce, driving Now,

And thund'ring loud, with his ten thoufand wheels?
They would be, were not madness in the head,
And fólly in the heart; were England now
What England was; plain, hofpitable, kind,
And undebauch'd. But we have bid farewell
To all the virtues of thofe better days,
And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once
Knew their own masters; and laborious hinds,
Who had surviv'd the father, servd the fon.
Now the legitimate and rightful lord
Is but a tranfient gueft, 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 ate landscapes, gaz'd upon a while,
Then advertis'd, and auctioneer'd away.
The country starves, and they that feed th' o'er-

And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues,
By a juft judgment strip and ftarve themselves.
The wings that waft our riches out of fight
Grow on the gamester's elbows; and th'alert
And nimble motion of those restless joints,

That never tire, soon fans them all away.
Improvement too, the idol of the age,
Is fed with many a victim. Lo, he comes !
Th' omnipotent magician, Brown, appears.!
Down falls the venerable pile, th' abode
Of our forefathers-a grave


race, But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, But in a distant spot; where, more expos’d, It may enjoy th' advantage of the north, And aguilh eaft, till time shall have transform'd Those naked acres to a fhelt'ring grove. He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn-;. Woods vanish, hills subfide, 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 Now, Now murm'ring soft, now roaring in cascadesEv'n as he bids ! Th'enraptur'd owner smiles. 'Tis finish’d, and yet, finish'd as it seems, Still wants a grace, the loveliest it. could show, A mine to satisfy th’ enormous cost. Drain'd to the last poor item of his wealth, He sighs, departs, and leaves th' accomplish'd plan That he has touch'd, retouch'd, many a long day

Labour'd, and many a night pursu'd in dreams, Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the heav'a He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy! And now perhaps the glorious hour is conte, When, having no ftake left, no pledge t'endear Her int'rests, or that gives her facred 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 cheft; Or, if that mine be fout, fome private purse Supplies his need with an usurious loan, To be refunded duly when bis vote, Well-manag‘d, shall have earn'd its worthy price. Oh innocent, compar'd with arts like thefe, Crape, and cock'd pistol, and the whistling bal} Sent through the trav'ller's temples! He that finds One drop of heav'n's fweet mercy in his cup, Can dig, beg, rot, and perish, well content, So he may wrap himself in honeft rags At his laft gafp; but could not for a world Filh up his dirty and dependent bread From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, Sordid and fick’ning at his own success.



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