And conftant occupation without care.
Thus bleft, I draw a picture of that blifs;
Hopeless, indeed, that diffipated minds,
And profligate abufers of a world

Created fair fo much in vain for them,
Should feek the guiltless joys that I defcribe,
Allur'd by my report: but fure no less,

That, felf-condemn'd, they muft 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 difguft, yet boldly ftill,

The caufe of piety and facred truth,

And virtue, and those scenes which God ordain'd
Should beft fecure them and promote them moft;
Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive
Forfaken, or through folly not enjoy'd.
Pure is the nymph, though lib'ral of her fmiles,
And chafte, though unconfin'd, whom I extol.
Not as the prince in Shufhan, when he call'd,
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 the 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 ftill renew'd,
Is free to all men-univerfal prize.

Strange that fo fair a creature should yet want
Admirers, and be deftin'd to divide

With meaner objects ev'n the few fhe finds!
Stripp'd of her ornaments, her leaves and flow'rs,
She lofes all her influence. Cities then

Attract us, and neglected Nature pines,
Abandon'd, as unworthy of our love.

But are not wholefome airs, though unperfum'd
By rofes; and clear funs, though scarcely felt;
And groves, if unharmonious, yet fecure
From clamour, and whose very filence charms;
To be preferr'd to smoke, to the eclipse

That Metropolitan volcanos make,

Whofe Stygian throats breathe darkness all day

long;

And to the ftir of commerce, driving flow,

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, hofpitable, kind,
And undebauch'd. But we have bid farewell
To all the virtues of thofe better days,
And all their honeft pleasures. Mansions once
Knew their own masters; and laborious hinds,
Who had furviv'd the father, ferv'd the fon.
Now the legitimate and rightful lord
Is but a tranfient gueft, newly arriv'd,
And foon to be fupplanted. He that faw
His patrimonial timber caft its leaf,

Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price
To fome fhrewd fharper, ere it buds again.
Eftates are landscapes, gaz'd upon a while,
Then advertis'd, and auctioneer'd away.

The country. ftarves, and they that feed th' o'ercharg'd

And furfeited lewd town with her fair dues,
By a juft judgment ftrip and ftarve themselves.
The wings that waft our riches out of fight
Grow on the gamefter'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!
Th' omnipotent magician, Brown, appears!
Down falls the venerable pile, th' abode
Of our forefathers—a grave whisker'd race,
But taftelefs. Springs a palace in its stead,
But in a diftant fpot; where, more expos'd,
It may enjoy th' advantage of the north,
And aguish eaft, till time fhall have transform'd
Those naked acres to a fhelt'ring grove.

He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn;
Woods vanish, hills fubfide, and vallies rise:
And ftreams, as if created for his use,
Pursue the track of his directing wand,
Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now flow,
Now murm'ring foft, now roaring in cafcades-
Ev'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 fatisfy th' enormous cost.

Drain'd to the laft 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

Labour'd, and many a night purfu'd in dreams,
Juft 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 ftake left, no pledge t' endear
Her int'refts, or that gives her facred cause
A moment's operation on his love,

He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal
To ferve his country. Minifterial grace
Deals him out money from the public cheft;
Or, if that mine be fhut, fome private purse
Supplies his need with an ufurious loan,
To be refunded duly when his vote,

Well-manag'd, fhall have earn'd its worthy price.
Oh innocent, compar'd with arts like thefe,
Crape, and cock'd piftol, and the whiftling ball
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
Fish up his dirty and dependent bread

From pools and ditches of the commonwealth,
Sordid and fick'ning at his own fuccefs.