A patriot's for his country: thou art sad

At thought of her forlorn and abject state,
From which no pow'r 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-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,
Disinterested good, is not our trade.

We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought;
And must be brib'd, 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 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 sew'r,
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 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 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 chissel 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, enlarg'd, 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 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, she has presum'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 unrespected forms,
And knees and hassocs 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? Possess ye, therefore, ye, who, born about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue