With what superior skill we can abuse

The gifts of Providence, and squander life.
The dream is past. And thou hast found again
Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and



And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast thou found
Their former charms? And having seen our state,
Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp

Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports,
And heard our music; are thy simple friends,
Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights
As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys
Lost nothing by comparison with ours?
Rude as thou art (for we return'd thee rude
And ignorant, except of outward show,)
I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart
And spiritless, as never to regret

Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known.
Methinks I see thee straying on the beach,
And asking of the surge that bathes thy foot
If ever it has wash'd our distant shore.
I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears,
A patriot's for his country. Thou art sad
At 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 morn
Thou climb'st the mountain top, with eager eye
Exploring far and wide the watery waste
For sight of ship from England. Every speck
Seen in the dim horizon, turns thee pale
With conflict of contending hopes and fears.






But comes at last the dull and dusky eve,
And sends thee to thy cabin, well-prepared
To dream all night of what the day denied.
Alas! expect it not. We found no bait
To tempt us in thy country. Doing good,
Disinterested good, is not our trade.
We travel far 'tis true, but not for nought;
And must be bribed to compass earth again
By other hopes and richer fruits than yours.
But though true worth and virtue, in the mild
And genial soil of cultivated life

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Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, 680
Yet not in cities oft 42,-in proud and gay

And gain-devoted cities; thither flow,
As to a common and most noisome sewer,
The dregs and fæculence of every land.
In cities foul example on most minds
Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds
In gross and pamper'd cities sloth and lust,
And wantonness and gluttonous excess.
In cities, vice is hidden with most ease,

Or seen with least reproach; and virtue taught
By 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 beams

Of warm encouragement, and in the eye


Of public note they reach their perfect size.

Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd

The fairest capital of all the world,

42 This is the life which those who fret in guilt,

And guilty cities, never know. Thomson. Autumn, 1352.

By riot and incontinence the worst.

There touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes 700
A lucid mirror, in which nature sees

All her reflected features. Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.
Nor does the chisel occupy alone

The powers of sculpture, but the style as much;
Each province of her art her equal care.
With nice incision of her guided steel

She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil
So 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 disk
Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots?
In London. Where her implements exact
With which she calculates, computes and scans
All distance, motion, magnitude, and now
Measures an atom, and now girds a world?
In London. Where has commerce such a mart,
So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied
As London, opulent, enlarged, and still
Increasing London? Babylon of old

Not more the glory of the earth, than she

A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now.





She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two 725

That so much beauty would do well to purge;

And show this Queen of Cities, that so fair
May yet be foul, so witty, yet not wise.
It is not seemly, nor of good report

That she is slack in discipline,-more prompt


To avenge than to prevent the breach of law.
That she is rigid in denouncing death 43
On petty robbers, and indulges life
And liberty, and oft-times honour too
To peculators of the public gold.

That thieves at home must hang; but he that puts

Into his overgorged and bloated purse
The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good 44,
That through profane and infidel contempt 45
Of holy writ, she has presumed to annul
And abrogate, as roundly as she may,
The total ordonance and will of God;
Advancing fashion to the post of truth,
And centering all authority in modes



And customs of her own, till sabbath rites
Have dwindled into unrespected forms,


And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced.
God made the country, and man made the town.
What wonder then 46, that health and virtue, gifts 750

43 One to destroy is murder by the law,
And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe.
To murder thousands takes a specious name.

Young. Sutire vii.

Where little villains must submit to fate,

That great ones may enjoy the world in state.

Dispensary. Canto ii.

4+ It is not, nor it cannot come to good. Hamlet.

45 An infidel contempt of holy writ

Stole by degrees upon his mind.

Excursion, p. 63.

Par. Lost, iii. 606.

46 What wonder then, if fields and regions here

Breathe forth elixir pure.

That can alone make sweet the bitter draught
That life holds out to all, should most abound
And least be threatened in the fields and groves?
Possess ye therefore, ye who borne about
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue "7
But that of idleness, and taste no scenes
But such as art contrives,-possess ye still
Your element; there only ye can shine,
There only minds like yours can do no harm.
Our groves were planted to console at noon
The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve
The moon-beam sliding softly in between
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare
The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound
Our more harmonious notes. The thrush departs
Scared, 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
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.

47 Pleasures fled to, to redress The sad fatigue of idleness.


Green. Spleen.

There too, my Paridel, she marked thee there,
Stretch'd on the rack of a too easy chair,
And heard thy everlasting yawn confess

The pains and penalties of idleness.

Dunciad, iv. 341.





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