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 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 steril 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?

701

710

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.

721

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 730
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 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 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 divorc'd.

740

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, 751 That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threaten'd 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 can ye 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. At eve
The moon-beam, 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

760

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 such 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, stedfast but for you,

A mutilated structure, soon to fall.

774