Book I: The Sofa

I sing the Sofa. I, who lately sangTruth, Hope, and Charity, and touched with aweThe solemn chords, and with a trembling hand,Escaped with pain from that advent'rous flight,Now seek repose upon a humbler theme:The theme though humble, yet august and proudThe occasion--for the Fair commands the song.

Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use,Save their own painted skins, our sires had none.As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth,Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile:The hardy chief upon the rugged rockWashed by the sea, or on the gravelly bankThrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud,Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength.Those barbarous ages past, succeeded nextThe birthday of invention; weak at first,Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.Joint-stools were then created; on three legsUpborne they stood. Three legs upholding firmA massy slab, in fashion square or round.On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms;And such in ancient halls and mansions drearMay still be seen, but perforated soreAnd drilled in holes the solid oak is found,By worms voracious eating through and through.

At length a generation more refinedImproved the simple plan, made three legs four,Gave them a twisted form vermicular,And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuffed,Induced a splendid cover green and blue,Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wroughtAnd woven close, or needlework sublime.There might ye see the peony spread wide,The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass,Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes,And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.

Now came the cane from India, smooth and brightWith Nature's varnish; severed into stripesThat interlaced each other, these supplied,Of texture firm, a lattice-work that bracedThe new machine, and it became a chair.But restless was the chair; the back erectDistressed the weary loins that felt no ease;The slippery seat betrayed the sliding partThat pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down,Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had placedIn modest mediocrity, contentWith base materials, sat on well-tanned hidesObdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth,With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,Or scarlet crewel in the cushion fixed:If cushion might be called, what harder seemedThan the firm oak of which the frame was formed.No want of timber then was felt or fearedIn Albion's happy isle. The lumber stoodPonderous, and fixed by its own massy weight.But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,An alderman of Cripplegate contrived,And some ascribe the invention to a priestBurly and big, and studious of his ease.But rude at first, and not with easy slopeReceding wide, they pressed against the ribs,And bruised the side, and elevated highTaught the raised shoulders to invade the ears.Long time elapsed or e'er our rugged siresComplained, though incommodiously pent in,And ill at ease behind. The ladies firstGan murmur, as became the softer sex.Ingenious fancy, never better pleasedThan when employed to accommodate the fair,Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devisedThe soft settee; one elbow at each end,And in the midst an elbow, it received,United yet divided, twain at once.So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne;And so two citizens who take the air,Close packed and smiling in a chaise and one.But relaxation of the languid frameBy soft recumbency of outstretched limbs,Was bliss reserved for happier days; so slowThe growth of what is excellent, so hardTo attain perfection in this nether world.Thus first necessity invented stools,Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs,And luxury the accomplished Sofa last.

The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick,Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly heWho quits the coach-box at the midnight hourTo sleep within the carriage more secure,His legs depending at the open door.Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk,The tedious rector drawling o'er his head,And sweet the clerk below; but neither sleepOf lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead,Nor his who quits the box at midnight hourTo slumber in the carriage more secure,Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk,Nor yet the dozings of the clerk are sweet,Compared with the repose the Sofa yields.

Oh, may I live exempted (while I liveGuiltless of pampered appetite obscene)From pangs arthritic that infest the toeOf libertine excess. The Sofa suitsThe gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb,Though on a Sofa, may I never feel:For I have loved the rural walk through lanesOf grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep,And skirted thick with intertexture firmOf thorny boughs: have loved the rural walkO'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink,E'er since a truant boy I passed my boundsTo enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames.And still remember, nor without regretOf hours that sorrow since has much endeared,How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed,Still hungering penniless and far from home,I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,Or blushing crabs, or berries that embossThe bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere.Hard fare! but such as boyish appetiteDisdains not, nor the palate undepravedBy culinary arts unsavoury deems.No Sofa then awaited my return,No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairsHis wasted spirits quickly, by long toilIncurring short fatigue; and though our years,As life declines, speed rapidly away,And not a year but pilfers as he goesSome youthful grace that age would gladly keep,A tooth or auburn lock, and by degreesTheir length and colour from the locks they spare;The elastic spring of an unwearied footThat mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence,That play of lungs inhaling and againRespiring freely the fresh air, that makesSwift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impairedMy relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothedOr charmed me young, no longer young, I findStill soothing and of power to charm me still.And witness, dear companion of my walks,Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceiveFast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love,Confirmed by long experience of thy worthAnd well-tried virtues, could alone inspire--Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.Thou know'st my praise of Nature most sincere,And that my raptures are not conjured upTo serve occasions of poetic pomp,But genuine, and art partner of them all.How oft upon yon eminence, our paceHas slackened to a pause, and we have borneThe ruffling wind scarce conscious that it blew,While admiration feeding at the eye,And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene!Thence with what pleasure have we just discernedThe distant plough slow-moving, and besideHis labouring team, that swerved not from the track,The sturdy swain diminished to a boy!Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plainOf spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,Conducts the eye along his sinuous courseDelighted. There, fast rooted in his bankStand, never overlooked, our favourite elmsThat screen the herdsman's solitary hut;While far beyond and overthwart the streamThat, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,The sloping land recedes into the clouds;Displaying on its varied side the graceOf hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower,Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bellsJust undulates upon the listening ear;Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.Scenes must be beautiful which daily viewedPlease daily, and whose novelty survivesLong knowledge and the scrutiny of years:Praise justly due to those that I describe.

Nor rural sights alone, but rural soundsExhilarate the spirit, and restoreThe tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading woodOf ancient growth, make music not unlikeThe dash of ocean on his winding shore,And lull the spirit while they fill the mind,Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once.Nor less composure waits upon the roarOf distant floods, or on the softer voiceOf neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slipThrough the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fallUpon loose pebbles, lose themselves at lengthIn matted grass, that with a livelier greenBetrays the secret of their silent course.Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,But animated Nature sweeter stillTo soothe and satisfy the human ear.Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and oneThe livelong night: nor these alone whose notesNice-fingered art must emulate in vain,But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublimeIn still repeated circles, screaming loud,The jay, the pie, and even the boding owlThat hails the rising moon, have charms for me.Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,And only there, please highly for their sake.

Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thoughtDevised the weather-house, that useful toy!Fearless of humid air and gathering rainsForth steps the man--an emblem of myself!More delicate his timorous mate retires.When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet,Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,Or ford the rivulets, are best at home,The task of new discoveries falls on me.At such a season and with such a chargeOnce went I forth, and found, till then unknown,A cottage, whither oft we since repair:'Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but closeEnvironed with a ring of branching elmsThat overhang the thatch, itself unseenPeeps at the vale below; so thick besetWith foliage of such dark redundant growth,I called the low-roofed lodge the PEASANT'S NEST.And hidden as it is, and far remoteFrom such unpleasing sounds as haunt the earIn village or in town, the bay of cursIncessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained,Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine.Here, I have said, at least I should possessThe poet's treasure, silence, and indulgeThe dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreatDearly obtains the refuge it affords.Its elevated site forbids the wretchTo drink sweet waters of the crystal well;He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,And heavy-laden brings his beverage home,Far-fetched and little worth: nor seldom waitsDependent on the baker's punctual call,To hear his creaking panniers at the door,Angry and sad and his last crust consumed.So farewell envy of the PEASANT'S NEST.If solitude make scant the means of life,Society for me! Thou seeming sweet,Be still a pleasing object in my view,My visit still, but never mine abode.

Not distant far, a length of colonnadeInvites us; monument of ancient taste,Now scorned, but worthy of a better fate.Our fathers knew the value of a screenFrom sultry suns, and, in their shaded walksAnd long-protracted bowers, enjoyed at noonThe gloom and coolness of declining day.We bear our shades about us; self-deprivedOf other screen, the thin umbrella spread,And range an Indian waste without a tree.Thanks to Benevolus--he spares me yetThese chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines,And, though himself so polished, still reprievesThe obsolete prolixity of shade.

Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast)A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridgeWe pass a gulf, in which the willows dipTheir pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.Hence ankle-deep in moss and flowery thymeWe mount again, and feel at every stepOur foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil.He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,Disfigures earth, and plotting in the darkToils much to earn a monumental pile,That may record the mischiefs he has done.

The summit gained, behold the proud alcoveThat crowns it! yet not all its pride securesThe grand retreat from injuries impressedBy rural carvers, who with knives defaceThe panels, leaving an obscure rude nameIn characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.So strong the zeal to immortalise himselfBeats in the breast of man, that even a fewFew transient years, won from the abyss abhorredOf blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize,And even to a clown. Now roves the eye,And posted on this speculative heightExults in its command. The sheepfold herePours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe.At first, progressive as a stream, they seekThe middle field; but scattered by degrees,Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land.There, from the sunburnt hay-field homeward creepsThe loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge,The wain that meets it passes swiftly by,The boorish driver leaning o'er his team,Vociferous, and impatient of delay.Nor less attractive is the woodland sceneDiversified with trees of every growth,Alike yet various. Here the gray smooth trunksOf ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine,Within the twilight of their distant shades;There, lost behind a rising ground, the woodSeems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs.No tree in all the grove but has its charms,Though each its hue peculiar; paler some,And of a wannish gray; the willow such,And poplar that with silver lines his leaf,And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm;Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still,Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak.Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun,The maple, and the beech of oily nutsProlific, and the lime at dewy eveDiffusing odours; nor unnoted passThe sycamore, capricious in attire,Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yetHave changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious mapOf hill and valley interposed between),The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land,Now glitters in the sun, and now retires,As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.

Hence the declivity is sharp and short,And such the re-ascent; between them weepsA little Naiad her impoverished urn,All summer long, which winter fills again.The folded gates would bar my progress now,But that the lord of this enclosed demesne,Communicative of the good he owns,Admits me to a share: the guiltless eyeCommits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys.Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun?By short transition we have lost his glare,And stepped at once into a cooler clime.Ye fallen avenues! once more I mournYour fate unmerited, once more rejoiceThat yet a remnant of your race survives.How airy and how light the graceful arch,Yet awful as the consecrated roofRe-echoing pious anthems! while beneath,The chequered earth seems restless as a floodBrushed by the wind. So sportive is the lightShot through the boughs, it dances as they dance,Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,And darkening and enlightening, as the leavesPlay wanton, every moment, every spot.

And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits cheered,We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks,With curvature of slow and easy sweep--Deception innocent--give ample spaceTo narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;Between the upright shafts of whose tall elmsWe may discern the thresher at his task.Thump after thump resounds the constant flail,That seems to swing uncertain and yet fallsFull on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff,The rustling straw sends up a frequent mistOf atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam.Come hither, ye that press your beds of downAnd sleep not: see him sweating o'er his breadBefore he eats it.--'Tis the primal curse,But softened into mercy; made the pledgeOf cheerful days, and nights without a groan.

By ceaseless action, all that is subsists.Constant rotation of the unwearied wheelThat Nature rides upon, maintains her health,Her beauty, her fertility. She dreadsAn instant's pause, and lives but while she moves.Its own revolvency upholds the world.Winds from all quarters agitate the air,And fit the limpid element for use,Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streamsAll feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansedBy restless undulation: even the oakThrives by the rude concussion of the storm:He seems indeed indignant, and to feelThe impression of the blast with proud disdain,Frowning as if in his unconscious armHe held the thunder. But the monarch owesHis firm stability to what he scorns,More fixed below, the more disturbed above.The law, by which all creatures else are bound,Binds man the lord of all. Himself derivesNo mean advantage from a kindred cause,From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease.The sedentary stretch their lazy lengthWhen custom bids, but no refreshment find,For none they need: the languid eye, the cheekDeserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk,And withered muscle, and the vapid soul,Reproach their owner with that love of restTo which he forfeits even the rest he loves.Not such the alert and active. Measure lifeBy its true worth, the comforts it affords,And theirs alone seems worthy of the nameGood health, and, its associate in the most,Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake,And not soon spent, though in an arduous task;The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs;Even age itself seems privileged in themWith clear exemption from its own defects.A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled frontThe veteran shows, and gracing a gray beardWith youthful smiles, descends towards the graveSprightly, and old almost without decay.

Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most,Farthest retires--an idol, at whose shrineWho oftenest sacrifice are favoured least.The love of Nature and the scene she drawsIs Nature's dictate. Strange, there should be foundWho, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons,Renounce the odours of the open fieldFor the unscented fictions of the loom;Who, satisfied with only pencilled scenes,Prefer to the performance of a GodThe inferior wonders of an artist's hand.Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art,But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire,None more admires, the painter's magic skill,Who shows me that which I shall never see,Conveys a distant country into mine,And throws Italian light on English walls.But imitative strokes can do no moreThan please the eye, sweet Nature every sense.The air salubrious of her lofty hills,The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales,And music of her woods--no works of manMay rival these; these all bespeak a powerPeculiar, and exclusively her own.Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;'Tis free to all--'tis ev'ry day renewed,Who scorns it, starves deservedly at home.He does not scorn it, who, imprisoned longIn some unwholesome dungeon, and a preyTo sallow sickness, which the vapours dankAnd clammy of his dark abode have bredEscapes at last to liberty and light;His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue,His eye relumines its extinguished fires,He walks, he leaps, he runs--is winged with joy,And riots in the sweets of every breeze.He does not scorn it, who has long enduredA fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamedWith acrid salts; his very heart athirstTo gaze at Nature in her green array.Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possessedWith visions prompted by intense desire;Fair fields appear below, such as he leftFar distant, such as he would die to find--He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.

The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown,And sullen sadness that o'ershade, distort,And mar the face of beauty, when no causeFor such immeasurable woe appears,These Flora banishes, and gives the fairSweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own.It is the constant revolution, staleAnd tasteless, of the same repeated joysThat palls and satiates, and makes languid lifeA pedlar's pack that bows the bearer down.Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heartRecoils from its own choice--at the full feastIs famished--finds no music in the song,No smartness in the jest, and wonders why.Yet thousands still desire to journey on,Though halt and weary of the path they tread.The paralytic, who can hold her cardsBut cannot play them, borrows a friend's handTo deal and shuffle, to divide and sortHer mingled suits and sequences, and sitsSpectatress both and spectacle, a sadAnd silent cipher, while her proxy plays.Others are dragged into the crowded roomBetween supporters; and once seated, sitThrough downright inability to rise,Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again.These speak a loud memento. Yet even theseThemselves love life, and cling to it as he,That overhangs a torrent, to a twig.They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die,Yet scorn the purposes for which they live.Then wherefore not renounce them? No--the dread,The slavish dread of solitude, that breedsReflection and remorse, the fear of shame,And their inveterate habits, all forbid.

Whom call we gay? That honour has been longThe boast of mere pretenders to the name.The innocent are gay--the lark is gay,That dries his feathers saturate with dewBeneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beamsOf day-spring overshoot his humble nest.The peasant too, a witness of his song,Himself a songster, is as gay as he.But save me from the gaiety of thoseWhose headaches nail them to a noonday bed;And save me, too, from theirs whose haggard eyesFlash desperation, and betray their pangsFor property stripped off by cruel chance;From gaiety that fills the bones with pain,The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe.

The earth was made so various, that the mindOf desultory man, studious of change,And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.Prospects however lovely may be seenTill half their beauties fade; the weary sight,Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides offFastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.Then snug enclosures in the sheltered vale,Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,Delight us, happy to renounce a while,Not senseless of its charms, what still we love,That such short absence may endear it more.Then forests, or the savage rock may please,That hides the sea-mew in his hollow cleftsAbove the reach of man: his hoary headConspicuous many a league, the mariner,Bound homeward, and in hope already there,Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waistA girdle of half-withered shrubs he shows,And at his feet the baffled billows die.The common overgrown with fern, and roughWith prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deformedAnd dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom,And decks itself with ornaments of gold,Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turfSmells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbsAnd fungous fruits of earth, regales the senseWith luxury of unexpected sweets.

There often wanders one, whom better daysSaw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmedWith lace, and hat with splendid ribbon bound.A serving-maid was she, and fell in loveWith one who left her, went to sea and died.Her fancy followed him through foaming wavesTo distant shores, and she would sit and weepAt what a sailor suffers; fancy too,Delusive most where warmest wishes are,Would oft anticipate his glad return,And dream of transports she was not to know.She heard the doleful tidings of his death,And never smiled again. And now she roamsThe dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,And there, unless when charity forbids,The livelong night. A tattered apron hides,Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gownMore tattered still; and both but ill concealA bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.She begs an idle pin of all she meets,And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,Though pinched with cold, asks never.--Kate is crazed!

I see a column of slow-rising smokeO'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild.A vagabond and useless tribe there eatTheir miserable meal. A kettle slungBetween two poles upon a stick transverse,Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog,Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloinedFrom his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race!They pick their fuel out of every hedge,Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenchedThe spark of life. The sportive wind blows wideTheir fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin,The vellum of the pedigree they claim.Great skill have they in palmistry, and moreTo conjure clean away the gold they touch,Conveying worthless dross into its place;Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.Strange! that a creature rational, and castIn human mould, should brutalise by choiceHis nature, and, though capable of artsBy which the world might profit and himself,Self-banished from society, preferSuch squalid sloth to honourable toil.Yet even these, though feigning sickness oftThey swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb,And vex their flesh with artificial sores,Can change their whine into a mirthful noteWhen safe occasion offers, and with dance,And music of the bladder and the bag,Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound.Such health and gaiety of heart enjoyThe houseless rovers of the sylvan world;And breathing wholesome air, and wandering much,Need other physic none to heal the effectsOf loathsome diet, penury, and cold.

Blest he, though undistinguished from the crowdBy wealth or dignity, who dwells secureWhere man, by nature fierce, has laid asideHis fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learnThe manners and the arts of civil life.His wants, indeed, are many; but supplyIs obvious; placed within the easy reachOf temperate wishes and industrious hands.Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil;Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns,And terrible to sight, as when she springs(If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remoteAnd barbarous climes, where violence prevails,And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind,By culture tamed, by liberty refreshed,And all her fruits by radiant truth matured.War and the chase engross the savage whole;War followed for revenge, or to supplantThe envied tenants of some happier spot;The chase for sustenance, precarious trust!His hard condition with severe constraintBinds all his faculties, forbids all growthOf wisdom, proves a school in which he learnsSly circumvention, unrelenting hate,Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside.Thus fare the shivering natives of the north,And thus the rangers of the western world,Where it advances far into the deep,Towards the Antarctic. Even the favoured islesSo lately found, although the constant sunCheer all their seasons with a grateful smile,Can boast but little virtue; and inertThrough plenty, lose in morals what they gainIn manners, victims of luxurious ease.These therefore I can pity, placed remoteFrom all that science traces, art invents,Or inspiration teaches; and enclosedIn boundless oceans, never to be passedBy navigators uninformed as they,Or ploughed perhaps by British bark again.But far beyond the rest, and with most cause,Thee, gentle savage! whom no love of theeOr thine, but curiosity perhaps,Or else vain-glory, prompted us to drawForth from thy native bowers, to show thee hereWith what superior skill we can abuseThe gifts of Providence, and squander life.The dream is past. And thou hast found againThy cocoas and bananas, palms, and yams,And homestall thatched with leaves. But hast thou foundTheir former charms? And, having seen our state,Our palaces, our ladies, and our pompOf equipage, our gardens, and our sports,And heard our music; are thy simple friends,Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delightsAs dear to thee as once? And have thy joysLost nothing by comparison with ours?Rude as thou art (for we returned thee rudeAnd ignorant, except of outward show),I cannot think thee yet so dull of heartAnd spiritless, as never to regretSweets tasted here, and left as soon as known.Methinks I see thee straying on the beach,And asking of the surge that bathes the footIf ever it has washed our distant shore.I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears,A patriot's for his country. Thou art sadAt thought of her forlorn and abject state,From which no power of thine can raise her up.Thus fancy paints thee, and, though apt to err,Perhaps errs little when she paints thee thus.She tells me too that duly every mornThou climb'st the mountain-top, with eager eyeExploring far and wide the watery waste,For sight of ship from England. Every speckSeen in the dim horizon turns thee paleWith conflict of contending hopes and fears.But comes at last the dull and dusky eve,And sends thee to thy cabin, well preparedTo dream all night of what the day denied.Alas, expect it not. We found no baitTo tempt us in thy country. Doing good,Disinterested good, is not our trade.We travel far, 'tis true, but not for naught;And must be bribed to compass earth againBy other hopes, and richer fruits than yours.

But though true worth and virtue, in the mildAnd genial soil of cultivated lifeThrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there,Yet not in cities oft. In proud and gayAnd gain-devoted cities, thither flow,As to a common and most noisome sewer,The dregs and feculence of every land.In cities, foul example on most mindsBegets its likeness. Rank abundance breedsIn gross and pampered cities sloth and lust,And wantonness and gluttonous excess.In cities, vice is hidden with most ease,Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taughtBy frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there,Beyond the achievement of successful flight.I do confess them nurseries of the arts,In which they flourish most; where, in the beamsOf warm encouragement, and in the eyeOf public note, they reach their perfect size.Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaimedThe fairest capital in all the world,By riot and incontinence the worst.There, touched by Reynolds, a dull blank becomesA lucid mirror, in which nature seesAll her reflected features. Bacon thereGives more than female beauty to a stone,And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.Nor does the chisel occupy aloneThe powers of sculpture, but the style as much;Each province of her art her equal care.With nice incision of her guided steelShe ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soilSo sterile with what charms soe'er she will,The richest scenery and the loveliest forms.Where finds philosophy her eagle eye,With which she gazes at yon burning diskUndazzled, and detects and counts his spots?In London. Where her implements exact,With which she calculates, computes, and scansAll distance, motion, magnitude, and nowMeasures an atom, and now girds a world?In London. Where has commerce such a mart,So rich, so thronged, so drained, and so supplied,As London, opulent, enlarged, and stillIncreasing London? Babylon of oldNot more the glory of the earth, than sheA more accomplished world's chief glory now.

She has her praise. Now mark a spot or twoThat so much beauty would do well to purge;And show this queen of cities, that so fairMay yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise.It is not seemly, nor of good report,That she is slack in discipline; more promptTo avenge than to prevent the breach of law:That she is rigid in denouncing deathOn petty robbers, and indulges lifeAnd liberty, and ofttimes honour too,To peculators of the public gold:That thieves at home must hang; but he, that putsInto his overgorged and bloated purseThe wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.Nor is it well, nor can it come to good,That through profane and infidel contemptOf holy writ, she has presumed to annulAnd abrogate, as roundly as she may,The total ordinance and will of God;Advancing fashion to the post of truth,And centring all authority in modesAnd customs of her own, till Sabbath ritesHave dwindled into unrespected forms,And knees and hassocks are wellnigh divorced.

God made the country, and man made the town.What wonder, then, that health and virtue, giftsThat can alone make sweet the bitter draughtThat life holds out to all, should most aboundAnd least be threatened in the fields and groves?Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne aboutIn chariots and sedans, know no fatigueBut that of idleness, and taste no scenesBut such as art contrives, possess ye stillYour element; there only ye can shine,There only minds like yours can do no harm.Our groves were planted to console at noonThe pensive wanderer in their shades. At eveThe moonbeam, sliding softly in betweenThe sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,Birds warbling all the music. We can spareThe splendour of your lamps, they but eclipseOur softer satellite. Your songs confoundOur more harmonious notes. The thrush departsScared, and the offended nightingale is mute.There is a public mischief in your mirth;It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan,Has made, which enemies could ne'er have done,Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,A mutilated structure, soon to fall.