His hungry acres, ftinks, and is of ufe.

Th' excife is fatten'd with the rich refult
Of all this riot; and ten thousand cafks,
For ever dribbling out their base contents,
Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state,
Bleed gold for Minifters to fport away.

Drink and be mad then; 'tis your country bids;

Gloriously drunk, obey th' important call

Her caufe demands th' affiftance of your throats;

Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.

Would I had fall'n

upon thofe happier days

That poets celebrate; thofe golden times

And those Arcadian feenes that Maro fings,

And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose.

Nymphs were Dianas then, and fwains had hearts
That felt their virtues: innocence, it seems,

From courts difmifs'd, found fhelter in the groves.
The footsteps of fimplicity, impress'd

Upon the yielding herbage (fo they fing)

Then were not all effac'd: then speech profane,

And manners profligate, were rarely found,
Obferv'd as prodigies, and foon reclaim'd.
Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreams
Sat for the picture; and the poet's hand,
Imparting fubftance to an empty fhade,
Impos'd a gay delirium for a truth.

Grant it I ftill muft envy them an age

That favor'd fuch a dream; in days like these
Impoffible, when virtue is fo fcarce,

That to suppose a scene where she prefides,
Is tramontane, and ftumbles all belief.

No: we are polish'd now. The rural lafs,
Whom once her virgin modesty and grace,
Her artless manners, and her neat attire,
So dignified, that she was hardly lefs
Than the fair fhepherdefs of old romance,
Is feen no more. The character is loft.
Her head, adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft,
And ribbands ftreaming gay, fuperbly rais'd,

And magnified beyond all human fize,

Indebted to fome fmart wig-weaver's hand

For more than half the treffes it fuftains;

Her elbows ruffled, and her tott'ring form.

Ill propp'd upon French heels; fhe might be deem'd (But that the basket dangling on her arm

Interprets her more truly) of a rank

Too proud for dairy-work or fale of

eggs. Expect her foon with foot-boy at her heels, No longer blufhing for her awkward load,

Her train and her umbrella all her care.

The town has ting'd the country; and the stain Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe,

The worse for what it foils. The fashion runs

Down into scenes ftill rural; but, alas!

Scenes rarely grac'd with rural manners now.
Time was when, in the pastoral retreat,

Th' unguarded door was fafe; men did not watch
T' invade another's right, or guard their own.

Then fleep was undisturb'd by fear, unfcar'd
By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale
Of midnight murther, was a wonder heard
With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes.
But farewel now to unfufpicious nights,

And flumbers unalarm'd: now, ere you sleep,
See that your polifh'd arms be prim'd with care,
And drop the night-bolt; ruffians are abroad,
And the firft larum of the cock's fhrill throat

May prove a trumpet, fummoning your ear
To horrid founds of hoftile feet within.

Ev'n day-light has its dangers; and the walk
Through pathlefs waftes and woods, unconscious once
Of other tenants than melodious birds,

Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold.

Lamented change! to which full many a cause
Invet'rate, hopélefs of a cure, confpires.

The course of human things from good to ill,
From ill to worfe, is fatal, never fails.

Increase of pow'r begets increase of wealth;

Wealth luxury, and luxury excess ;
Excefs, the scrophulous and itchy plague
That seizes first the opulent, defcends
To the next rank contagious, and in time
Taints downward all the graduated scale
Of order, from the chariot to the plough.
The rich, and they that have an arm to check
The license of the lowest in degree,

Defert their office; and themselves, intent
On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus
To all the violence of lawless hands

Refign the scenes their prefence might protect.
Authority herself not seldom fleeps,

Though refident, and witnefs of the wrong.
The plump convivial parfon often bears
The magifterial fword in vain, and lays
His rev'rence and his worship both to reft
On the fame cushion of habitual floth.

Perhaps timidity reftrains his arm ;

When he should strike he trembles, and fets free,