And thus the rangers of the western world, Where it advances far into the deep,
Towards th' Antarctic. Ev'n the favour'd isles, So lately found, although the constant sun Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, Can boast but little virtue, and inert Through plenty, lose in morals, what they gain In manners, victims of luxurious ease. These therefore I can pity, placed remote From all that science traces, art invents, Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed In boundless oceans, never to be pass'd By navigators uninform'd as they, Or plough'd 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 curiosity perhaps,
Or else vain-glory, prompted us to draw Forth from thy native bow'rs, to show thee here 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 yams, And homes tall thatch'd with leaves.
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 ev'ry morn Thou climb'st the mountain top, with eager eye Exploring far and wide the wat❜ry waste, For sight of ship from England. Ev'ry 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
Thrive most, 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 ev'ry 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 th' achievement of successful flight. I do confess them nurs'ries 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 in all the world,
By riot and incontinence the worst.
There, touch'd 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 chisel occupy alone
The pow'rs 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 scen'ry 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 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 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 ofttimes 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 ť annul And abrogate, as roundly as she may, The total ordinance and will of God; Advancing fashion to the post of truth,
And centring 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, that health and virtue, gifts 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 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 wand'rer in their shades. The moonbeam, 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 th' 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 you, A mutilated structure, soon to fall.
H for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war
Might never reach me more! My ear is pain'd, My soul is sick with ev'ry day's report
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, It does not feel for man. The nat❜ral bond Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax, That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colour'd like his own, and having pow'r T'enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.
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