With nice incifion of her guided steel

She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a foil
So fterile with what charms fo'er fhe will,

The richest fcen'ry and the loveliest forms,
Where finds philofophy her eagle eye,
With which fhe 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 fuch a mart,

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So rich, fo throng'd, fo drain'd, and fo fupplied,
As London-opulent, enlarg'd, and still

Increafing, 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 fpot or two, That fo much beauty would do well to purge; .

And show this queen of cities, that fo fair
May yet be foul; fo witty, yet not wise.
It is not feemly, nor of good report,
That she 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 honour too,

To peculators of the public gold:

That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts

Into his overgorg'd 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, fhe has prefum'd t' annul
And abrogate, as roundly as fhe may,
The total ordinance and will of God;
Advancing fashion to the poft of truth,
And cent'ring all authority in modes

And customs of her own, till fabbath rites

Have dwindled into unrespected forms,

And knees and haffocs are well-nigh divorc❜d.

'God made the country, and man made the town.)

What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts ́

That can alone make fweet the bitter draught
That life holds out to all, fhould most abound
And leaft be threaten'd in the fields and groves?
Poffefs ye, therefore, ye, who, born about
In chariots and fedans, know no fatigue
But that of idlenefs, and tafte no fcènes

But fuch as art contrives, poffefs ye ftill
Your element; there only can ye fhine;
There only minds like your's can do no harm.
Our groves were planted to confole at noon
The penfive wand'rer in their 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 splendour of your lamps; they but eclipse

Our fofter fatellite. Your fongs confound

Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs Scar'd, and th' offended nightingale is mute. There is a public mischief in your mirth;

It plagues your country. Folly fuch as your's, Grac'd with a fword, and worthier of a fan,

Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, Our arch of empire, stedfast but for you,

A mutilated structure, foon to fall.