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$124. Morning; or, the Complaint. An American Eclogue. GREGORY.

FAR

from the favage bandit's fierce alarms, Or diftant din of horrid defpot's arms, Tho' Pennfylvania boafts her peaceful plain, Yet there in blood her petty tyrants reign.

With waving pines tho' vocal woods be crown'd, And ftream-fed vales with living wealth abound, To golden fields tho' ripening rays defcend, With bluthing fruit tho' loaded branches bend; To thofe who ne'er muft freedom's bleffings tafte, 'Tis barren all, 'tis all a worthlefs wafte.

While hoarfe the cataract murmur'd on the gale, And chilling dews fwept through the murky dale; Along the hills the difinal tempeft howl'd, And lightnings flafh'd,and deep the thunder roll'd; Beneath a leaflefs tree, ere morn arofe, The flave Adala thus laments his woes: Ye grifly fpcctres, gather round my feat, From caves unbleft, that wretches groans repeat! Terrific forms, from mifty lakes arife! And bloody meteors threaten thro' the skies! Oh curs'd deftroyers of our haplefs race, Of human kind the terror and difgrace!

Lo! hofts of dufky captives, to my view, Demand a deep revenge! demand their due! And frowning chiefs now dart athwart the gloom, And o'er the falt sea wave pronounce your doom: But Gods are juft, and oft the ftroke forbear, To plunge the guilty in tenfold defpair.

Lift high the fcourge, my foul the rack difdains;
I pant for freedom and my native plains!
With limbs benumb'd my poor companions lie;
Opprefs'd by pain and want the aged figh;
Thro' reedy huts the driving tempeft pours,
Their feftering wounds receive the fickly fhow'rs;
In mad'ning draughts our lords their fenfes steep,
And doom their flaves to ftripes and death in fleep:
Now, while the bitter blaft furrounds my head,
To times long paft my reftlefs foul is led,
Far, far beyond the azure hills, to groves
Of ruddy fruit, where beauty fearless roves-
O blifsful feats! O felf-approving joys!
Nature's plain dictates! ignorance of vice!
O guiltless hours! Our cares and wants were few,
No arts of luxury or deceit we knew.

Our labour, fport-to tend our cottage care,
Or from the palm the lufcious juice prepare;
To fit indulging love's delufive dream,
And fnare the filver tenants of the stream;
Or (nobler toil!) to aim the deadly blow
With dext'rous art against the fpotted foe;
O days with youthful daring mark'd! 'twas then
I dragg'd the fhaggy monster from his den,
And boldly down the rocky mountain's fide,
Hurl'd the grim panther in the foaming tide.
Our healthful sports a daily feast afford,
And even still found us at the focial board.

Can I forget, ah me! the fatal day,
When half the vale of peace was swept away!

Th'affrighted maids in vain the gods implore,
And weeping view from far the happy fhore;
The frantic dames impatient ruffians feize,
And infants fhriek, and clafp their mothers knees;
With galling fetters foon their limbs are bound,
And groans throughout the noifome bark refound.
Why was I bound! why did not Whydah fee
Adala gain or death or victory!

No storms arife, no waves revengeful roar,
To dash the monsters on our injur'd fhore.
Long o'er the foaming deep to worlds unknown,
By envious winds the bulky veffel's blown,
While by difeafe and chains the weak expire,
Or parch'd endure the flow confuming fire.
Who'd in this land of many forrows live,
Where death's the only comfort tyrants give?
Tyrants unbleft! Each proud of ftrict command,
Nor age nor fickness holds the iron hand;
Whofe hearts, in adamant involv'd, defpife
The drooping female's tears, the infant's cries,
Fromwhofe ftern brows no grateful look e'er beams,
Whole blufhlefs front nor rape nor murder shames.
Nor all I blame; for Naftal, friend to peace,
Thro' his wide pastures bids oppreffion cease
No drivers goad, no galling fetters bind,
Nor ftern compulfion damps th' exalted mind.
There ftrong Arcona's fated to enjoy
Domeftic fweets, and rear his progeny;
To till his glebe employs Arcona's care,
To Naftal's God he nightly makes his pray'r;
His mind at eafe, of Chriftian truths he'll boaft-
He has no wife, no lovely offspring loft.
Gay his favannah blooms, while mine appears
Scorch'd up with heat, or moift with blood and tears.
Cheerful his hearth in chilling winter burns,

While to the ftorm the fad Adala mourns.

Lift high the fcourge,my foul the rack difdains; I pant for freedom and my native plains! Shall I his holy prophet's aid implore, And wait for juftice on another shore ? Or, rufhing down yon mountain's craggy steep, End all my forrows in the fullen deep? A cliff there hangs in yon grey morning cloud, The dafhing wave bencath roars harth and loudBut doubts and fears involve my anxious mind, The gulf of death once pafs'd, what shore we find. Dubious, if fent beyond th' expanded main, This foul fall feek its native realms again: Or if in gloomy mifts condemn'd to lie, Beyond the limits of yon arching fky. A better profpect oft my fpirit cheers, And in my dreams the vale of peace appears, And fleeting vifions of my former life: My hoary fire I clafp, my long-loft wife, And oft 1 kifs my gentle babes in fleep, Till with the founding whip I'm wak'd to weep.

Lift high the fcourge,my foul the rack difdains; I pant for freedom and my native plains! Chiefs of the earth, and monarchs of the fea, Who vaunt your hardy ancestors were free;

The Quakers in America have fet fiec all their Negroes, and allow them wages as other fervants.

Whofe

Whofe teachers plead th' opprefs'd and injur'd's

cause,

prove

And the wifdom of your prophet's laws;
To force and fraud if juftice muft give place,
You're dragg'd to flavery by fome rougher race.
Some rougher race your flocks fhall force away,
Like Afric's fons your children must obey;
The very Gods that view our constant toil,
Shall fee your offspring till a ruder foil,
The pain of thirst and pinching hunger know,
And all the torments that from bondage flow,
When,far remov'd from Chriftian worlds, we prove
The fweets of peace, the lafting joys of love.
But, hark! the whip's harsh echo thro' the trees!
On every trembling limb fresh horrors feize-
Alas! 'tis morn, and here I fit alone-

Be ftrong, my foul, and part without a groan!
Ruffians proceed! Adala ne'er fhall fwerve,
Prepare the rack, and strain each aching nerve!
Lift high the fcourge, my foul the rack dif-

dains;

I for freedom and my native plains. pant Thou God, who gild'ft with light the rifing day! Who life difpenfeft by thy genial ray! Will thy flow vengeance never, never fall, But undiftinguifh'd favour thine on all? O hear a fuppliant wretch's latt, fad pray'r! Dart fierceft rage! infect the ambient air! This pallid race, whose hearts are bound in fteel, By dint of fuffering teach them how to feel.

Or, to fome defpot's lawlefs will betray'd,
Give them to know what wretches they have made!
Beneath the lafh let them refign their breath,
Or court, in chains, the clay-cold hand of death.
Or, worst of ills! within each callous breast,
Cherish uncurb'd the dark internal peft;
Bid Av'rice fwell with undiminish'd rage,
While no new worlds th' accuried thirft affuage;

Then bid the monsters on each other turn,
The fury paffions in diforder burn;

Bid Difcord flourish, civil crimes increase,
Nor one fond with arife that pleads for peace-
Till, with their crimes in wild confufion hurl'd,
They wake t'eternal anguish in a future world.

§ 125. Evening, or the Fugitive. An American Eclogue. GREGORY. MOMBAZE.

SAY whither, wand rer, points thy cheerlefs way,
When length'ning fhades announce the clofe of
Inyon wild wafte no friendly roof thou'lt find[day?
The haunt of ferpents, and the favage kind.
And fure rememb'rance mocks me, or I trace
In thine the femblance of Zamboia's face?
Yet fcarce thyself! for in thy alter'd eye
I read the records of hard deftiny.
From thy rack'd bofom fighs that ceafeless flow,
A man befpeak thee exercis'd in woe.
Say, then, what chance has burst thy rigid chains,
Has led thee frantic o'er thefe diftant plains?
What potent forrows can thy peace infest?
What crimes conceal'd prey on thy anxious breaft?

ZAMBOIA.

No crimes this heart infeft, this hand defile, Or frantic drive me o'er a foreign foil. A murder'd wife, and wrongs unmatch'd I mourn, And buried joys, that never fhall retuin! If then thou'rt tempted by the traitor's reed, Take this poor life, and profper by the deed! MOMBAZE.

Not the rich produce of Angola's fhore, Not all the mifer's heap'd and glittering ftore, Not all that pride would grafp, or pomp difplay, Should tempt this hand the wretched to betray. No traitors dwell within this bleft domain, The friends of peace we live, a guilelefs train. Grief dims thy eye, or gladly wouldst thou fee Thy lov❜d Mombaze yet furvives in me. Canft thou forget? I taught thy youth to dare The fylvan herd, and wage the defp'rate war. Can't thou forget? One common lot we drew, With theee inchain'd, a captive's fate I knew. Diftruft me not, but unreferv'd disclose The anxious tale that in thy bofom glows. To part our griefs is oft to mitigate, And focial forrows blunt the darts of fate. ΖΑΜΒΟΙΑ.

Dear to my fight that form, and doubly dear Thy well-known accents meet Zamboia's ear. O! had I died, and left the name of flave Deep, deep entomb'd within an early grave! O had I died, ere ruthlefs fates contrain, With thee enthrall'd, to cross the weftorn main! O! to have met a glorious death in arms, And ne'er beheld Melinda's fatal charms! Time would be fhort, and memory would fail, To dwell distinctly on the various tale. Tedious to tell what treach'rous arts were tried, To footh the fmart of still revolting pride. I liv'd, and lov'd—then kifs'd the fatal chain; No joy but one to cheer a life of pain. Yet witness bear, thou dear departed ghost, That lonely rov'ft thy Gambia's facred coaft! How fweet the toil that met the morning's ray, How light the labour that o'er-lafted day! The reed-built hovel, and the scanty fare, Imperial blifs could give, Melinda there! When o'er-prefs'd Nature droop'd in want of reft! Soft was my pillow, on thy gentle breast, And if a rebel tear difgrac'd my eye, Thine was the tear, and thine the bursting figh. Blifs I could boaft, unenvied had it pais'd, But blif's too great for hapless flaves to laft.

A wretch, who banish'd from his native clime, Defil'd with many a black and monstrous crime, Prefided o'er us, and with iron hand Held favage fway o'er all the fervile band. In him each hellish paffion rudely glow'd, And cruelty in him most cruel fhew'd. Him luft infernal, one fad ev'ning, led T'invade the chafteness of my marriage bed: I chanc'd t' approach-the caitiff I furpris'dMy wife preferv'd, and had his guilt chaftis'd; While full with vengeance boil'd my wounded But chance referv'd hiin for a bafer part. [heart:

This Eclogue was written during the American war. Hh

Meanwhile,

Meanwhile, o'erjoy'd that vice e'en once had fail'd,
I blefs'd the gods that innocence prevail'd.

The baffled villain, now a foe profeis'd,
Rolls fcenes of blood within his rank ling breaft;
With coward arts he forg'd a crafty tale;
And hands unrighteous poize the partial scale.
Imputed crimes to crush the weak fuffice,
Hearfay is guilt, and damning fact furmife.
Where uncurb'd will ufurps the place of laws,
No friendly pleader takes the wretch's caufe.
Our tyrant's fears each want of proof supplied,
We ftand condemn'd, unqueftion'd, and untried.
O! had the grief and fhaine been all my own,
And the black vengeance lit on me alone!
But harfher fates a harder curfe decreed;
Thefe eyes were doom'd to fee Melinda bleed.
I faw her by relentlefs ruffians bound,
The brandifh'd fcourge inflict the mortal wound;
Her tender frame abus'd, and mangled o'er,
I faw her welt'ring in a flood of gore.
The murd'rous feene had foon a dreadful clofe-
And do I live! and can I fpeak my woes!
Her pregnant womb no longer could fuftain
The public fhame, and agony of pain;
A birth abortive robb'd her of her breath,
And pangs convulfive feal'd her eyes in death.
One only pledge my weary foul detains,
This haplefs infant, all that now remains;
The mournful image of my once lov'd wife,
And ties me down awhile to hated life.
Elfe this bold hand fhould liberty restore,
And my rapt fpirit feck a happier fhore.
Thro' devious paths with timid hafte we fly,
Where yon blue mountains meet the bending fky.
Nor ferpents haunts I dread, nor defarts drear,
The mafter-favage, Man, alone I fear.

MOMBAZE.

Since from our native realms compell'd to part,
Such pointed forrows have not touch'd my heart.
Infatiate plunderers! could it not fuffice
To rend, inhuman, all the focial tres?
From guiltlefs joys, that blefs'd our native foil,
Dragg'd to a life of mifery and toil;
Would you yet take the little God has given,
And intercept the gracious dews of Heaven?
Your rage for blood, wild as your thirft of gain,
Shall no refpects, not truths divine, reftrain?
Th' eternal fabric can a name undo?
Is rape and murder fan&tified in you?
And us, what laws, as impious as fevere,
Forbid the common rites of man to fhare?
Didft thou, creative Power! thy views confine?
For one proud race the fpacious earth defign?
For them alone does plenty deck the vale,
Blush in the fruit, and tinge the scented gale?
For them the feafons all their fweets unfold?
Blooms the fresh rofe, and fhines the waving gold?
O no! all bounteous is thy equal hand,
And thy fix'd laws irrevocable ftand!
Haplefs Zamboia! had it been thy fate
With me to share my more propitious state;
Thy foul had breath'd no impious wish to die,
Nor the big tear had trembled in thine eye.

Disjoin'd from thee, I too to flavery went;
But Heaven a father, not a mafter, lent.
He seems as Virtue's felf in mortal guise;
Tho' wealthy, fimple; and tho' modeft, wife.
Bleft be the hand that life and freedom gave!
That pow'r can boaft, exerted but to fave!
Bleft the fage tongue that ftor'd the vacant mind,
The manners foften'd, and the heart refin'd!
That, ftill to Heaven's unerring dictates true,
Eternal truth unfolded to our view!

But, come thy faint and weary limbs repofe,
Forgetful of thy fears, thy griefs compofe;
By inorning's dawn with carne ft foot 1 fpeed,
Nor fleep thefe eyes till I behold thee freed.
Some wealth I have; and, did I prize it more,
Well fpar'd for this I deem the facred store.

So talk'd thefe friends, and to the cottage hafte;
While fad Zamboia his purfuers trac'd.
The ruffian band arreft the haplefs fwain,
And pray rs, and tears, and promifes are vain:
Their vengeful fervour, no-not gifts abate;
But, bound in chains, they drag him to his fate.

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door;

There, where the putrid vapours flagging play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful thro' the day:
There children dwell who know no parents care;
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there;
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,

Forfaken wives, and mothers never wed;
Dejected widows with unheeded tears,
And crippled age with more than childhood fears!
The lame, the blind, and, far the happieft they
The moping idiot, and the madman gay.

Here too the fick their final doom receive,
Here brought, amid the fcenes of grief, to grieve:
Where the loud groans from fome fad chamber
flow,

Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below;
Here forrowing they cach kindred forrow scan,
And the cold charities of man to man:
Whofe laws indeed for ruin'd age provide,
And ftrong compuifion plucks the fcrap from
pride;

But ftill that scrap is bought with many a figh,
And pride embitters what it can't deny.

Say ye, oppreft by fome fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;
Who prefs the downy couch, while flaves advance
With timid eye, to read the diftant glance;
Who with fad prayers the weary doctor teafe
To name the nameless ever-new disease;
Who with mock-patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain, and that alone, can cure;
How would ve bear in real pain to lic,
Defpis'd, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath,
Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?

* A higher reward is generally offered for the head of a fugitive negro, than for bringing him alive..

Such

Such is that room which one rude beam divides, And naked rafters form the floping fides; Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are feen,

And lath and mud are all that lie between;
Save one dull pane, that, coarfely patch'd,gives way
To the rude tempeft, yet excludes the day:
Here, on a matted flock, with duft o'erfpread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Nor wipes the tear that ftagnates in his eyes;
No friends with foft difcourfe his pain beguile,
Nor promife hope till ficknefs wears a fimile.

127. Defcription of a Country Apothecary.
CRABBE.
BUT foon a loud and hafty fummons calls,
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes roundthewalls:
Anon a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All pride and bus'nefs, buftle and conceit;
With looks unalter'd by thefe fcenes of woe,
With speed that, entering, speaks his hafte to go;
He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and phyfic in his eye;
A potent quack, long vers'd in human ills,
Who firft infults the victim whom he kills;
Whofe murd'rous hand a drowsy bench protect,
And whose most tender mercy is neglect.

;

Paid by the parifh for attendance here, He wears contempt upon his fapient fneer In hafte he feeks the bed where mifery lies, Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes; And, fome habitual queries hurried o'er, Without reply, he rushes on the door : His drooping patient, long inur'd to pain, And long unheeded, knows remonftrance vain; He ceates now the feeble help to crave Of man, and mutely haftens to the grave.

§ 129. The Reason for defcribing the Vices of the Village. CRABBE.

YET why, you aik, thefe humble crimes relate,
Why make the poor as guilty as the great?
To fhew the great, thofe mightier fons of pride,
How near in vice the loweft are allied;
Such are their natures, and their paffions fuch,
But thefe difguife too little, thofe too much:
So fhall the man of pow'r and pleasure fee
In his own flave as vile a wretch as he;
In his luxuriant lord the fervant find
His own low pleafures and degenerate mind:
And each in all the kindred vices trace
Of a poor, blind, bewilder'd, crring race;
Who, a fhort time in varied fortune past,
Die, and are equal in the dust at last.
And you, ye poor, who still lament your fate,
Forbear to envy thofe you reckon great;
And know, amid thofe blethings they poffefs,
They are, like you, the victims of diftrefs;
Fear waits on guilt, and Danger shakes thebrave.
While Sloth with many a pang torments her slave,

§ 130. Apology for Vagrants. ANON. FOR him, who, loft to ev'ry hope of life,

Has long with fortune held unequal strife,
Known to no human love, no human care,
The friendlefs, homeless object of defpair;
For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains,
Nor from fad freedom fend to fadder chains.
Alike, if folly or misfortune brought

Thofe laft of woes his evil days have wrought;
Relieve with focial mercy, and with me,
Folly's misfortune in the firft degree.

Perhaps on fome inhofpitable fhore

The houseless wretch a widow'd parent bore;
Who, then no more by golden profpects led,
Of the poor Indian beg'd a leafy bed.
Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain,

§ 128. Defcription of a Country Clergyman Perhaps that parent mourn'd her foldier flain; visiting the Sick.

BUT

CRABBE.

ere his death fome pious doubts arife, Some fimple fears which "bold bad" men defpife;

66

Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove
His title certain to the joys above;
For this he fends the murmuring nurfe, who calls
The holy ftranger to thefe difinal walls;
And doth not he, the pious man, appear,
He, paffing rich with forty pounds a year?”
Ah no a fhepherd of a different stock,
And far unlike him, feeds this little flock;
A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's tafk
As much as God or man can fairly afk;
The reft he gives to loves and labours light,
To fields the morning, and to feafts the night;
None better skill'd the noify pack to guide,
To urge their chace, to cheer them or to chide;
Sure in his fhot, his game he feldom mifs'd,
And feldom fail'd to win his game at whift;
Then, while fuch honours bloom around his heal,
Shall he fit fadly by the fick man's bed,
To raife the hope he feels not, or with zeal
To combat fears that ev'n the pious feel?

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Bent o'er her babe, her eye diffolv'd in dew,
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,
Gave the fad prefage of his future years,
The child of mifery, baptiz'd in tears!

$131. Epifle to a young Gentleman, on his leaving Eton School. By Dr. ROBERTS. SINCE now a nobler scene awakes thy care,

Since manhood dawning, to fair Granta's tow`rs, Where once in life's gay fpring I lov'd to roam, Invites thy willing fteps; accept, dear youth, This parting ftrain; accept the fervent pray'r Of him who loves thee with a paffion pure As ever friendfhip dropp'd in human heart; The prayer, That he who guides the hand of youth Thro' all the puzzled and perplexed round Of life's meand'ring path, upon thy head May fhower down every bleifing, every joy, Which health, which virtue, and which fame can give!

Yet think not I will deign to flatter thee; Shall he, the guardian of thy faith and truth, The guide, the pilot of thy tender years, Teach thy young heart to feel a fpurious glow

Hh2

A

!

At undeferved praife? Perish the flave
Whofe venal breath in youth's unpractis'd ear
Pours poifon'd flattery, and corrupts the foul
With vain conceit; whose base ungenerous art
Fawns on the vice, which fome with honeft hand
Have torn for ever from the bleeding breast.

Say, gentle youth, remember'ft thou the day
When o'er thy tender shoulders first I hung
The golden lyre, and taught thy trembling hand
Totouch th'accordant ftrings? From that bleft hour
I've feen thee panting up the hill of faine;
Thy little heart beat high with honest praise,
Thy cheek was fluth'd, and oft thy fparkling eye
Shot flames of young ambition. Never quench
That generous ardour in thy virtuous breast.
Sweet is the concord of harmonious founds,
When the foft lute or pealing organ ftrikes
The well-attemper'd ear; fweet is the breath
Of honeft love, when nymph and gentle swain
Waft fighs alternate to cach other's heart:
But nor the concord of harmonious founds,
When the foft lute or pealing organ strikes
The well-attemper'd ear; nor the fweet breath
Of honeft love, when nymph and gentle fwain
Waft fighs alternate to cach other's heart,
So charin with ravishment the raptur'd fenfe,
As does the voice of well-deferv'd report
Strike with fweet melody the confcious foul.

On ev'ry object thro' the giddy world
Which fathion to the dazzled eye prefents,
Fresh is the glofs of newnefs; look, dear youth,
O look, but not admire: O let not thefe
Rafe from thy noble heart the fair records
Which youth and education planted there:
Let not affection's full impetuous tide,
Which riots in thy generous breaft, be check'd
By felfifh cares; nor let the idle jcers
Of laughing fools make thee forget thyself.
When didit thou hear a tender tale of woe,
And feel thy heart at reft? Have I not fcen
In thy fwoln eye the tear of fympathy,
The milk of human kindnefs? When didft thou,
With envy rankling, bear a rival prais'd?
When didit thou flight the wretched? When de-
The modeft humble fuit of poverty?
Thefe virtues ftill be thine; nor ever learn
To look with cold eye on the charities
Of brother, or of parents; think on thofe
Whofe anxious case thro' childhood's flippery path
Suftain'd thy feeble steps; whofe every with
Is wafted till to thee; remember thofe,
Even in thy heart while memory holds her feat.
And oft as to thy mind thou shalt recal
The fweet companions of thy earlicft years,
Mates of thy fport, and rivals in the ftrife
Of every generous art, remember me.

[fpife

132. Great Cities, and London in particular,
allowed their due Praife. COWPER.
BUT tho' 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 moft noifome fewer,

The dregs and feculence of ev'ry land.
In cities, foul example on moft minds
Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds
In grofs and pamper'd cities floth and lust,
And wantonnefs, and gluttonous excels.
In cities, vice is hidden with most case,
Or feen with least reproach; and virtue, taught
By frequent lapfe, can hope no triumph there
Beyond th' achievement of fuccesful Hight.
I do confefs them nurs'ries of the arts,
In which they flourish moft; where, in the beams
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye
Of public note, they reach their perfect fize.
Such London is, by tafte and wealth proclaim'd
The fairest capital of all the world,

By riot and incontinence the worst.

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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 cloquence to marble lips.
Nor does the chifel 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 fhe will,
The richeft fcenery, and the lovelieft forms.
Where finds philofophy her eagle eye,
With which the gazes at yon burning difk
Undazzled, and detects and counts his fpots ?
In London. Where her implements exact,
With which the calculates, computes, and fans,
All diftance, motion, magnitude; and now
Meafures 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 fupplied
As London, opulent, enlarg'd, and still
Increafing London? Babylon of old
Not more the glory of the earth, than the
A more accomplitfh'd world's chief glory now.

She has her praife. Now mark a spot or two
That fo much beauty would do well to purge;
And fhew this queen of cities, that fo fair
May yet be foul, fo witty yet not wife.
It is not feemly, nor of good report,
That he is flack in difcipline; more prompt
Tavenge than to prevent the breach of law,
That fhe 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 muit hang; but he that puts
Into his overgorg'd and bloated purfe
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, the has prefum'd t'annul
And abrogate, as roundly as the may,
The total ordinance and will of God;
Advancing fashion to the poft of truth,
And cent'ring all authority in modes
And cuftoms of her own, till Sabbath rites
Have dwindled into unrefpected forms,
And knees and haffocks are well nigh-d.vorc'd.
God

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