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Or ploughed perhaps by British bark again.
But far beyond the rest, and with most cause,
Thee, gentle * savage! whom no love of thee
Or thine, but curiofity perhaps,
Or elle vain glory, prompted us to draw
Forth from thy native bowers, to shew thee here
With what superior skill we can abuse
'The gifts of Providence, and squander life.
The dream is paft; and thou haft found again
Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,
And homestall thatched with leaves. But hast thou

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 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 our's?
Rude as thou art, (for we returned thee rude
And ignorant, except of outward show)
I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart

* Omai.

And spiritless, as never to regret
Sweets tafted here, and left as soon as known.
Methinks I see thee ftraying on the beach,
And asking of the surge, that bathes thy foot,
If ever it has washed our distant Thore.
I see 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 she paints thee thus.
She tells me too that duly every morn
Thou climbest the mountain top, with eager eye
Exploring far and wide the watery waste
For fight 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 your's.

But though true worth and virtue in the mild And genial soil 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 sewer, The dregs and feculence of every landa In cities foul example on most minds Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds In gross and pampered cities Noth 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 moft; where, in the beams Of warm encouragement, and in the eye Of public note, they reach their perfect fize. Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaimed The faireft capital of all the world,

By riot and incontinence the worst.
There, touched by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes
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 chiffel occupy alone
The powers of sculpture, but the style as inuch;
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 sterile with what charms foever 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 inplements 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 thronged, so drained, 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 accomplished 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 how 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 Black in discipline; more prompt To avenge than to prevent the breach of law : That Ne is rigid in denouncing death. 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, That, through profane and infidel contempt Of holy writ, she has presumed to annul And abrogate, as roundly as she may, The total ordinance and will of God; Advancing fashion to the post of truth, And centering all authority in modes

VOL, 11.

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