Was but to boaft his own peculiar good,
Which all might view with envy, none partake.
My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets,
And fhe 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, 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 wholesome airs, though unperfum'd
By rofes; and clear funs, though fcarcely felt, 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 farewel
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 saw
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 awhile,
Then advertis'd, and auctioneer'd away.
The country starves, and they that feed th' o'ercharg'd
And furfeited lewd town with her fair dues,
By a juft judgment ftrip and starve 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-
The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears.
Down falls the venerable pile, th' abode
Of our forefathers, a grave whisker'd race,
But tastelefs. Springs a palace in its ftead,
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
Thofe naked acres to a fhelt'ring grove.
He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn,
Woods vanish, hills fubfide, 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 fmiles.
'Tis finish'd; and yet, finish'd as it seems,
Still wants a grace, th' lovelieft it could fhow,
A mine to fatisfy 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 purfu'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 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 serve his country. Ministerial grace
Deals him out money from the public chest,
Or, if that mine be fhut, fome private purfe
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 whistling ball
Sent through the trav'ller's temples! He that finds in his cup,
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 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 fuccess.
Ambition, av'rice, penury incurr'd
By endless riot; vanity, the luft
Of pleasure and variety, dispatch,
As duly as the fwallows difappear,
The world of wand'ring knights and squires to town.
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