* Where it advances far into the deep,
Towards th' Antarctic. Ev'n the favor'd ifles So lately found, although the conftant fun Cheer all their feasons with a grateful fmile, Can boast but little virtue ; and inert Through plenty, lofe in morals, what they gain In manners, victims of luxurious cafe. These therefore I can pity, placed remote From all that science traces, art invents, Or infpiration teaches; and inclofed In boundlefs oceans never to be pafs'd By navigators uninformed as they,
Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again. But far beyond the reft, and with most caufe Thee, gentle favage! whom no love of thee Or thine, but curiofity perhaps,
Or elfe vain-glory, prompted us to draw Forth from thy native bow'rs, to fhow thee here With what fuperior skill we can abuse The gifts of Providence, and fquander life. The dream is paft. And thou haft found again Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,
And homeftall thatch'd with leaves. But haft thou found Their former charms? And having feen our state, Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp Of equipage, our gardens, and our fports, And heard our mufic; are thy fimple friends, Thy fimple fare, and all thy plain delights As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys
Loft 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 fo dull of heart And fpiritlefs, as never to regret
Sweets tasted here, and left as foon as known. Methinks I see thee ftraying on the beach, And asking of the furge that bathes thy foot If ever it has wafh'd our diftant fhore. I fee thee weep, and thine are honest tears, A patriot's for his country. Thou art fad 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 fhe paints thee thus, She tells me too that duly ev'ry morn Thou climb'ft the mountain top, with eager eye Exploring far and wide the wat'ry wafte For fight of fhip from England. Ev'ry fpeck Seen in the dim horizon, turns thee pale With conflict of contending hopes and fears. But comes at laft the dull and dusky eve, And fends thee to thy cabbin, well-prepar'd 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, Difinterested, good, is not our trade. We travel far 'tis true, but not for nought; And must be brib'd to cempafs earth again By other hopes and richer fruits than yours.
But though true worth and virtue, in the mild And genial foil of cultivated life
Thrive moft, and may perhaps thrive only there, Yet not in cities oft. In proud and gay And gain-devoted cities; thither flow, As to a common and most noisome fewer, The dregs and fæculence of ev'ry land. In cities foul example on most minds Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds In grofs and pamper'd cities floth and luft, And wantonnefs and gluttonous excess. In cities, vice is hidden with most ease, Or feen with leaft reproach; and virtue taught By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there Beyond th' atchievement of successful flight. I do confefs them nurs'ries of the arts, In which they flourish moft. Where in the beams Of warm encouragement, and in the eye. Of public note they reach their perfect fize. Such London is, by tafte and wealth proclaim'd'
The fairest capital of all the world,
By riot and incontinence the worst.
There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes A lucid mirror, in which nature fees,
All her reflected features. Bacon there Gives more than female beauty to a stone, And Chatham's eloquence with marble lips, Nor does the chiffel occupy alone
The pow'rs of sculpture, but the style as much; Each province of her art her equal care. With nice incifion of her guided steel
She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a foil So fterile with what charms foe'er fhe will, The richest scenʼry and the lovelieft forms. Where finds philofophy her eagle eye With which the gazes at yon burning disk Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots? In London. Where her implements exact With which she calculates, computes and fcans All distance, motion, magnitude, and now Measures an atom, and now girds a world? In London. Where has commerce fuch a mart, So rich, fo throng'd, fo drain'd, and fo fupplied As London, opulent, enlarged, and ftill Increasing London? Babylon of old
Not more the glory of the earth, than fhe A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now.
She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two That so much beauty would do well to purge ; And show this queen of cities, that so fair May yet be foul, fo witty, yet not wife. It is not feemly, nor of good report That fhe is flack in difcipline. More prompt T' avenge than to prevent the breach of law. That she is rigid in denouncing death On petty robbers, and indulges life And liberty, and oft-times honor too
To peculators of the public gold.
That thieves at home muft hang; but he that puts Into his overgorged and bloated purfe
The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, That through profane and infidel contempt Of holy writ, fhe has prefum'd t'annul And abrogate as roundly as she may, The total ordonnance and will of God; Advancing fashion to the post of truth, And cent'ring all authority in modes And cuftoms of her own, till Sabbath rites Have dwindled into unrefpected forms, And knees and hafsocks are well-nigh divorced.
God made the country, and man made the town. What wonder then, that health and virtue, gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all, fhould most abound And least be threatened in the fields and groves? Poffefs ye therefore, ye who borne about In chariots and fedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and tafte no scenes But fuch as art contrives, poffefs ye ftill Your element; there only ye can shine,.... There only minds like yours can do no harm. Our groves were planted to confole at noon The penfive wandʼrer in the shades. At eve The moon-beam fliding foftly in between The fleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, Birds warbling all the mufic. We can spare The fplendor of your lamps, they but eclipse Our fofter fatillite. Your fongs confound Our more harmonious notes. The thrush departs Scar'd, and th' offended nightingale is mute
« AnteriorContinuar » |