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 the 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 waste
For fight 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 fends thee to thy cabin, 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 compafs 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 noifome few'r,
The dregs and feculence 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 lust,
And wantonnefs and gluttonous excess.
In cities vice is hidden with most ease,
Or feen with leaft reproach; and virtue, taught
By frequent lapfe, can hope to triumph there
Beyond th' achievement of successful flight.
I do confefs 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 fizė. Such London is, by tafte and wealth proclaim'd The faireft 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 to marble lips.
Nor does the chiffel occupy alone

The pow'rs of fculpture, but the ftyle 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 she 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 the 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,
So rich, fo throng'd, fo drain'd, and fo fupply'd,
As London-opulent, enlarg'd, and still
Increafing, 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 praife. Now mark a fpot or two, That so much beauty would do well to purge; And fhow 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 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 muft 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, she has prefum'd t'annul
And abrogate, as roundly as she may,
The total ordinance and will of God;
Advancing fashion to the post of truth,
And cent'ring all authority in modes
And customs of her own, till Sabbath rites
Have dwindled into unrefpected 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 sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves? Poffefs ye, therefore, ye, who, borne about In chariots and fedans, know no fatigue But that of idlenefs, and taste no scenes But fuch as art contrives, poffefs ye ftill Your element; there only can ye shine;

There only minds like yours 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 music.
We can spare
The fplendour of your lamps; they but eclipfe
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 mifchief in your mirth;
It plagues your country. Folly fuch as yours,
Grac'd with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done,
Our arch of empire, ftedfaft but for you,
A mutilated ftructure, foon to fall.