I Sing the Sofa. I who lately sangTruth, Hope, and Charity,[805]and touch'd with aweThe solemn chords, and with a trembling hand,Escaped with pain from that adventurous flight,Now seek repose upon an humbler theme;The theme though humble, yet august and proudThe occasion—for the Fair commands the song.Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use,Save their own painted skins, our sires had none.As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth,Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile:The hardy chief upon the rugged rock,Wash'd by the sea, or on the gravelly bankThrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud,Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength.Those barbarous ages past, succeeded nextThe birthday of Invention; weak at first,Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.Joint-stools were then created; on three legsUpborne they stood. Three legs upholding firmA massy slab, in fashion square or round.On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,And sway'd the sceptre of his infant realms:And such in ancient halls and mansions drearMay still be seen; but perforated sore,And drill'd in holes, the solid oak is found,By worms voracious eating through and through.At length a generation more refinedImprov'd the simple plan; made three legs four,Gave them a twisted form vermicular,And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuff'd,Induced a splendid cover, green and blue,Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wroughtAnd woven close, or needlework sublime.There might ye see the piony spread wide,The full blown rose, the shepherd and his lass,Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes,And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.Now came the cane from India, smooth and brightWith Nature's varnish, sever'd into stripesThat interlaced each other, these suppliedOf texture firm a lattice work, that bracedThe new machine, and it became a chair.But restless was the chair; the back erectDistress'd the weary loins, that felt no ease;The slippery seat betray'd the sliding partThat press'd it, and the feet hung dangling down,Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.These for the rich; the rest, whom Fate had placedIn modest mediocrity, contentWith base materials, sat on well tann'd hides,Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth,With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,Or scarlet crewel, in the cushion fix'd,If cushion might be call'd, what harder seem'dThan the firm oak of which the frame was form'd.No want of timber then was felt or fear'dIn Albion's happy isle. The lumber stoodPonderous and fix'd by its own massy weight.But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,An alderman of Cripplegate contrived;And some inscribe the invention to a priest,Burly and big, and studious of his ease.But, rude at first, and not with easy slopeReceding wide, they pressed against the ribs,And bruised the side; and, elevated high,Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears.Long time elapsed or e'er our rugged siresComplain'd, though incommodiously pent in,And ill at ease behind. The ladies first'Gan murmur, as became the softer sex.Ingenious Fancy, never better pleasedThan when employed to accommodate the fair,Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devisedThe soft settee; one elbow at each end,And in the midst an elbow it received,United yet divided, twain at once.So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne;And so two citizens, who take the air,Close pack'd, and smiling, in a chaise and one.But relaxation of the languid frame,By soft recumbency of outstretch'd limbs,Was bliss reserved for happier days. So slowThe growth of what is excellent; so hardTo attain perfection in this nether world.Thus first Necessity invented stools,Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs,And Luxury the accomplish'dSofalast.The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick,Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly heWho quits the coach-box at the midnight hour,To sleep within the carriage more secure,His legs depending at the open door.Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk,The tedious rector drawling o'er his head;And sweet the clerk below. But neither sleepOf lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead,Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour,To slumber in the carriage more secure,Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk,Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet,Compared with the repose the Sofa yields.Oh may I live exempted (while I liveGuiltless of pampered appetite obscene)From pangs arthritic, that infest the toeOf libertine Excess! The Sofa suitsThe gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb,Though on a Sofa, may I never feel:For I have loved the rural walk through lanesOf grassy swarth, close cropp'd by nibbling sheep,And skirted thick with intertexture firmOf thorny boughs; have loved the rural walkO'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink,E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my boundsTo enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames;And still remember, nor without regretOf hours that sorrow since has much endear'd,How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed,Still hungering, pennyless, and far from home,I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,Or blushing crabs, or berries, that embossThe bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere.Hard fare! but such as boyish appetiteDisdains not; nor the palate, undepravedBy culinary arts, unsavoury deems.No Sofa then awaited my return;Nor Sofa then I needed. Youth repairsHis wasted spirits quickly, by long toilIncurring short fatigue; and though our years,As life declines, speed rapidly away,And not a year but pilfers as he goesSome youthful grace, that age would gladly keep;A tooth or auburn lock, and by degreesTheir length and colour from the locks they spare;The elastic spring of an unwearied foot,That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence,That play of lungs, inhaling and againRespiring freely the fresh air, that makesSwift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,Mine have not pilfer'd yet; nor yet impair'dMy relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothedOr charm'd me young, no longer young, I findStill soothing, and of power to charm me still.And witness, dear companion of my walks,Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceiveFast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love,Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth,And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire—Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere,And that my raptures are not conjured upTo serve occasions of poetic pomp,But genuine, and art partner of them all.How oft upon yon eminence our paceHas slacken'd to a pause, and we have borneThe ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew,While Admiration, feeding at the eye,And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'dThe distant plough slow moving, and besideHis labouring team, that swerv'd not from the track,The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plainOf spacious meads, with cattle sprinkled o'er,Conducts the eye along his sinuous courseDelighted. There, fast rooted in their bank,Stand, never overlook'd, our favourite elms,That screen the herdsman's solitary hut;While far beyond, and overthwart the stream,That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,The sloping land recedes into the clouds;Displaying on its varied side the graceOf hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower,Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bellsJust undulates upon the listening ear,Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote.Scenes must be beautiful which, daily view'd,Please daily, and whose novelty survivesLong knowledge and the scrutiny of years—Praise justly due to those that I describe.Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds,Exhilarate the spirit, and restoreThe tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading woodOf ancient growth, make music not unlikeThe dash of Ocean on his winding shore,And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast,And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once.Nor less composure waits upon the roarOf distant floods, or on the softer voiceOf neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slipThrough the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fallUpon loose pebbles, lose themselves at lengthIn matted grass, that with a livelier greenBetrays the secret of their silent course.Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,But animated nature sweeter still,To soothe and satisfy the human ear.Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and oneThe livelong night: nor these alone, whose notesNice-finger'd Art must emulate in vain,But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublimeIn still-repeated circles, screaming loud,The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl,That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,And only there, please highly for their sake.Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thoughtDevised the weather-house, that useful toy!Fearless of humid air and gathering rains,Forth steps the man—an emblem of myself!More delicate his timorous mate retires.When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet,Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,Or ford the rivulets, are best at home,The task of new discoveries falls on me.At such a season, and with such a charge,Once went I forth; and found, till then unknown,A cottage, whither oft we since repair:'Tis perched upon the green hill top, but closeEnviron'd with a ring of branching elms,That overhang the thatch, itself unseenPeeps at the vale below; so thick besetWith foliage of such dark redundant growth,I call'd the low-roof'd lodge thepeasant's nest.And, hidden as it is, and far remoteFrom such unpleasing sounds as haunt the earIn village or in town, the bay of cursIncessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,And infants clamorous whether pleased or pain'd,Oft have I wish'd the peaceful covert mine.Here, I have said, at least I should possessThe poet's treasure, silence, and indulgeThe dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreatDearly obtains the refuge it affords.Its elevated site forbids the wretchTo drink sweet waters of the crystal well;He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,And, heavy laden, brings his beverage home,Far fetch'd and little worth; nor seldom waits,Dependent on the baker's punctual call,To hear his creaking panniers at the door,Angry and sad, and his last crust consumed.So farewell envy of the peasant's nest!If solitude make scant the means of life,Society for me!—thou seeming sweet,Be still a pleasing object in my view;My visit still, but never mine abode.Not distant far, a length of colonnadeInvites us. Monument of ancient taste,Now scorn'd, but worthy of a better fate.Our fathers knew the value of a screenFrom sultry suns; and, in their shaded walksAnd long protracted bowers, enjoyed at noonThe gloom and coolness of declining day.We bear our shades about us; self-deprivedOf other screen, the thin umbrella spread,And range an Indian waste without a tree.Thanks to Benevolus,[806]he spares me yetThese chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines;And, though himself so polished, still reprievesThe obsolete prolixity of shade.Descending now,—but cautious, lest too fast,—A sudden steep upon a rustic bridge,We pass a gulf, in which the willows dipTheir pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.Hence, ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme,We mount again, and feel at every stepOur foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil.He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,Disfigures earth: and, plotting in the dark,Toils much to earn a monumental pile,That may record the mischiefs he has done.The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcoveThat crowns it! yet not all its pride securesThe grand retreat from injuries impress'dBy rural carvers, who with knives defaceThe panels, leaving an obscure, rude name,In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.So strong the zeal to immortalize himselfBeats in the breast of man, that e'en a few,Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorr'dOf blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize,And even to a clown. Now roves the eye;And, posted on this speculative height,Exults in its command. The sheepfold herePours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe.At first, progressive as a stream, they seekThe middle field; but, scatter'd by degrees,Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land.There from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward creepsThe loaded wain; while, lighten'd of its charge,The wain that meets it passes swiftly by;The boorish driver leaning o'er his teamVociferous and impatient of delay.Nor less attractive is the woodland scene,Diversified with trees of every growth,Alike, yet various. Here the grey smooth trunksOf ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine,Within the twilight of their distant shades;There, lost behind a rising ground, the woodSeems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs.No tree in all the grove but has its charms,Though each its hue peculiar; paler some,And of a wannish grey; the willow such,And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf,And ash far stretching his umbrageous arm;Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still,Lord of the woods, the long surviving oak.Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun,The maple, and the beech of oily nutsProlific, and the lime at dewy eveDiffusing odours: nor unnoted passThe sycamore, capricious in attire,Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yetHave changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious mapOf hill and valley interposed between),The Ouse, dividing the well water'd land,Now glitters in the sun, and now retires,As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.Hence the declivity is sharp and short,And such the re-ascent; between them weepsA little naiad her impoverish'd urnAll summer long, which winter fills again.The folded gates would bar my progress now,But that the lord[806]enclosed demesne,Communicative of the good he owns,Admits me to a share: the guiltless eyeCommits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys.Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun?By short transition we have lost his glare,And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime.Ye fallen avenues! once more I mournYour fate unmerited, once more rejoiceThat yet a remnant of your race survives.How airy and how light the graceful arch,Yet awful as the consecrated roofRe-echoing pious anthems! while beneathThe chequer'd earth seems restless as a floodBrush'd by the wind. So sportive is the lightShot through the boughs, it dances as they dance,Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,And darkening and enlightening, as the leavesPlay wanton, every moment, every spot.And now, with nerves new braced and spirits cheer'd,We tread the wilderness, whose well roll'd walks,With curvature of slow and easy sweep—Deception innocent—give ample spaceTo narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;Between the upright shafts of whose tall elmsWe may discern the thresher at his task.Thump after thump resounds the constant flail,That seems to swing uncertain, and yet fallsFull on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff;The rustling straw sends up a frequent mistOf atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam.Come hither, ye that press your beds of downAnd sleep not; see him sweating o'er his breadBefore he eats it.—'Tis the primal curse,But soften'd into mercy; made the pledgeOf cheerful days, and nights without a groan.By ceaseless action all that is subsists.Constant rotation of the unwearied wheelThat Nature rides upon maintains her health,Her beauty, her fertility. She dreadsAn instant's pause, and lives but while she moves.Its own revolvency upholds the world.Winds from all quarters agitate the air,And fit the limpid element for use,Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams,All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansedBy restless undulation: e'en the oakThrives by the rude concussion of the storm:He seems indeed indignant, and to feelThe impression of the blast with proud disdain,Frowning, as if in his unconscious armHe held the thunder: but the monarch owesHis firm stability to what he scorns—More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above.The law, by which all creatures else are bound,Binds man, the lord of all. Himself derivesNo mean advantage from a kindred cause,From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease.The sedentary stretch their lazy lengthWhen custom bids, but no refreshment find,For none they need: the languid eye, the cheekDeserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk,And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul,Reproach their owner with that love of restTo which he forfeits e'en the rest he loves.Not such the alert and active. Measure lifeBy its true worth, the comforts it affords,And theirs alone seems worthy of the name.Good health, and, its associate in the most,Good temper: spirits prompt to undertake,And not soon spent, though in an arduous task;The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs;E'en age itself seems privileged in them,With clear exemption from its own defects.A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled frontThe veteran shows, and, gracing a grey beardWith youthful smiles, descends toward the graveSprightly, and old almost without decay.Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most,Farthest retires—an idol, at whose shrineWho oftenest sacrifice are favour'd least.The love of Nature and the scenes she drawsIs Nature's dictate. Strange! there should be found,Who, self-imprison'd in their proud saloons,Renounce the odours of the open fieldFor the unscented fictions of the loom;Who, satisfied with only pencil'd scenes,Prefer to the performance of a GodThe inferior wonders of an artist's hand!Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art;But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire,None more admires, the painter's magic skill,Who shows me that which I shall never see,Conveys a distant country into mine,And throws Italian light on English walls.But imitative strokes can do no moreThan please the eye—sweet Nature every sense.The air salubrious of her lofty hills,The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales,And music of her woods—no works of manMay rival these; these all bespeak a powerPeculiar, and exclusively her own.Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;'Tis free to all—'tis every day renew'd;Who scorns it starves deservedly at home.He does not scorn it, who, imprison'd longIn some unwholesome dungeon, and a preyTo sallow sickness, which the vapours, dankAnd clammy, of his dark abode have bred,Escapes at last to liberty and light:His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue;His eye relumines its extinguish'd fires;He walks, he leaps, he runs—is wing'd with joy,And riots in the sweets of every breeze.He does not scorn it, who has long enduredA fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamedWith acrid salts; his very heart athirstTo gaze at Nature in her green array,Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'dWith visions prompted by intense desire:Fair fields appear below, such as he leftFar distant, such as he would die to find—He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown,And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort,And mar the face of beauty, when no causeFor such immeasurable woe appears,These Flora banishes, and gives the fairSweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own.It is the constant revolution, staleAnd tasteless, of the same repeated joys,That palls and satiates, and makes languid lifeA pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down.Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heartRecoils from its own choice—at the full feastIs famish'd—finds no music in the song,No smartness in the jest; and wonders why.Yet thousands still desire to journey on,Though halt, and weary of the path they tread.The paralytic, who can hold her cards,But cannot play them, borrows a friend's handTo deal and shuffle, to divide and sortHer mingled suits and sequences; and sits,Spectatress both and spectacle, a sadAnd silent cipher, while her proxy plays.Others are dragg'd into the crowded roomBetween supporters; and, once seated, sits,Through downright inability to rise,Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again.These speak a loud memento. Yet e'en theseThemselves love life, and cling to it, as heThat overhangs a torrent to a twig.They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die,Yet scorn the purposes for which they live.Then wherefore not renounce them? No—the dread,The slavish dread of solitude, that breedsReflection and remorse, the fear of shame,And their inveterate habits, all forbid.Whom call we gay? That honour has been longThe boast of mere pretenders to the name.The innocent are gay—the lark is gay,That dries his feathers, saturate with dew,Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beamsOf dayspring overshoot his humble nest.The peasant too, a witness of his song,Himself a songster, is as gay as he.But save me from the gaiety of thoseWhose headaches nail them to a noon-day bed;And save me too from theirs whose haggard eyesFlash desperation, and betray their pangsFor property stripp'd off by cruel chance;From gaiety, that fills the bones with pain,The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe.The earth was made so various, that the mindOf desultory man, studious of change,And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.Prospects, however lovely, may be seenTill half their beauties fade; the weary sight,Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides offFastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.Then snug enclosures in the shelter'd vale,Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,Delight us; happy to renounce awhile,Not senseless of its charms, what still we love,That such short absence may endear it more.Then forests, or the savage rock, may please,That hides the sea-mew in his hollow cleftsAbove the reach of man. His hoary head,Conspicuous many a league, the mariner,Bound homeward, and in hope already there,Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waistA girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows,And at his feet the baffled billows die.The common, overgrown with fern, and roughWith prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd,And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom,And decks itself with ornaments of gold,Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turfSmells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbsAnd fungous fruits of earth, regales the senseWith luxury of unexpected sweets.There often wanders one, whom better daysSaw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'dWith lace, and hat with splendid riband bound.A serving maid was she, and fell in loveWith one who left her, went to sea, and died.Her fancy follow'd him through foaming wavesTo distant shores; and she would sit and weepAt what a sailor suffers; fancy too,Delusive most where warmest wishes are,Would oft anticipate his glad return,And dream of transports she was not to know.She heard the doleful tidings of his death—And never smiled again! and now she roamsThe dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,And there, unless when charity forbids,The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides,Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gownMore tatter'd still; and both but ill concealA bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.She begs an idle pin of all she meets,And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,Though pinch'd with cold, asks never.—Kate is crazed!I see a column of slow-rising smokeO'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild.A vagabond and useless tribe there eatTheir miserable meal. A kettle, slungBetween two poles upon a stick transverse,Receives the morsel—flesh obscene of dog,Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'dFrom his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race!They pick their fuel out of every hedge,Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'dThe spark of life. The sportive wind blows wideTheir fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin,The vellum of the pedigree they claim.Great skill have they in palmistry, and moreTo conjure clean away the gold they touch,Conveying worthless dross into its place;Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.Strange! that a creature rational, and castIn human mould, should brutalize by choiceHis nature; and, though capable of arts,By which the world might profit, and himself,Self-banish'd from society, preferSuch squalid sloth to honourable toil!Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft,They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb,And vex their flesh with artificial sores,Can change their whine into a mirthful noteWhen safe occasion offers; and with dance,And music of the bladder and the bag,Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound.Such health and gaiety of heart enjoyThe houseless rovers of the sylvan world;And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering much,Need other physic none to heal the effectsOf loathsome diet, penury, and cold.Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crowdBy wealth or dignity, who dwells secure,Where man, by nature fierce, has laid asideHis fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn,The manners and the arts of civil life.His wants indeed are many; but supplyIs obvious, placed within the easy reachOf temperate wishes and industrious hands.Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil;Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns,And terrible to sight, as when she springs(If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remoteAnd barbarous climes, where violence prevails,And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind,By culture tamed, by liberty refresh'd,And all her fruits by radiant truth matured.War and the chase engross the savage whole,War follow'd for revenge, or to supplantThe envied tenants of some happier spot:The chase for sustenance, precarious trust!His hard condition with severe constraintBinds all his faculties, forbids all growthOf wisdom, proves a school, in which he learnsSly circumvention, unrelenting hate,Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside.Thus fare the shivering natives of the north,And thus the rangers of the western world,Where it advances far into the deep,Towards the antarctic. E'en the favour'd isles,So lately found, although the constant sunCheer all their seasons with a grateful smile,Can boast but little virtue; and, inertThrough plenty, lose in morals what they gainIn manners—victims of luxurious ease.These therefore I can pity, placed remoteFrom all that science traces, art invents,Or inspiration teaches; and enclosedIn boundless oceans, never to be pass'dBy navigators uninform'd as they,Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again:But, far beyond the rest, and with most cause,Thee, gentle savage![807]whom no love of theeOr thine, but curiosity, perhaps,Or else vain-glory, prompted us to drawForth from thy native bowers, to show thee hereWith what superior skill we can abuseThe gifts of Providence, and squander life.The dream is past; and thou hast found againThy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast thou foundTheir former charms? And, having seen our state,Our palaces, our ladies, and our pompOf equipage, our gardens and our sports,And heard our music; are thy simple friends,Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delightsAs dear to thee as once? And have thy joysLost nothing by comparison with ours?Rude as thou art (for we return'd thee rudeAnd ignorant, except of outward show),I cannot think thee yet so dull of heartAnd spiritless as never to regretSweets tasted here, and left as soon as known.Methinks I see thee straying on the beach,And asking of the surge that bathes thy foot,If ever it has wash'd our distant shore.I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears,A patriot's for his country: thou art sadAt 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 she paints thee thus.She tells me, too, that duly every mornThou climb'st the mountain top, with eager eyeExploring far and wide the watery wasteFor sight of ship from England. Every speckSeen in the dim horizon turns thee paleWith conflict of contending hopes and fears.But comes at last the dull and dusky eve,And sends thee to thy cabin, well preparedTo dream all night of what the day denied.Alas! expect it not. We found no baitTo 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 bribed to compass earth againBy other hopes and richer fruits than yours.But though true worth and virtue in the mildAnd genial soil of cultivated lifeThrive 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 sewer,The dregs and feculence of every land.In cities foul example on most mindsBegets 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, taughtBy frequent lapse, can hope no triumph thereBeyond the achievement of successful flight.I do confess them nurseries of the arts,In which they flourish most; where, in the beamsOf warm encouragement, and in the eyeOf public note, they reach their perfect size.Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'dThe fairest capital of all the world:By riot and incontinence the worst.There touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomesA lucid mirror, in which Nature seesAll her reflected features. Bacon thereGives more than female beauty to a stone,And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.Nor does the chisel occupy aloneThe powers of sculpture, but the style as much;Each province of her art her equal care.With nice incision of her guided steelShe ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soilSo sterile with what charms soe'er she will,The richest scenery and the loveliest forms.Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye,With which she gazes at yon burning diskUndazzled, and detects and counts his spots?In London: where her implements exact,With which she calculates, computes, and scansAll distance, motion, magnitude, and nowMeasures 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, enlarged, and stillIncreasing London? Babylon of oldNot 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 fairMay yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise.It is not seemly, nor of good report,That she is slack in discipline; more promptTo avenge than to prevent the breach of law:That she is rigid in denouncing deathOn petty robbers, and indulges lifeAnd liberty, and ofttimes honour too,To peculators of the public gold:That thieves at home must hang; but he, that putsInto his over-gorged and bloated purseThe wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.Nor is it well, nor can it come to good,That, through profane and infidel contemptOf holy writ, she has presumed to annulAnd 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 modesAnd customs of her own, till sabbath ritesHave dwindled into unrespected forms,And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced.God made the country, and man made the town,What wonder then that health and virtue, giftsThat can alone make sweet the bitter draughtThat life holds out to all, should most aboundAnd least be threaten'd in the fields and groves?Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne aboutIn chariots and sedans, know no fatigueBut that of idleness, and taste no scenesBut such as art contrives, possess ye stillYour element; there only can ye shine;There only minds like yours can do no harm.Our groves were planted to console at noonThe pensive wanderer in their shades. At eveThe moonbeam, sliding softly in betweenThe sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,Birds warbling all the music. We can spareThe splendour of your lamps; they but eclipseOur softer satellite. Your songs confoundOur more harmonious notes; the thrush departsScared, and the offended nightingale is mute.There is a public mischief in your mirth;It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,Graced 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.
I Sing the Sofa. I who lately sangTruth, Hope, and Charity,[805]and touch'd with aweThe solemn chords, and with a trembling hand,Escaped with pain from that adventurous flight,Now seek repose upon an humbler theme;The theme though humble, yet august and proudThe occasion—for the Fair commands the song.Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use,Save their own painted skins, our sires had none.As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth,Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile:The hardy chief upon the rugged rock,Wash'd by the sea, or on the gravelly bankThrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud,Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength.Those barbarous ages past, succeeded nextThe birthday of Invention; weak at first,Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.Joint-stools were then created; on three legsUpborne they stood. Three legs upholding firmA massy slab, in fashion square or round.On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,And sway'd the sceptre of his infant realms:And such in ancient halls and mansions drearMay still be seen; but perforated sore,And drill'd in holes, the solid oak is found,By worms voracious eating through and through.At length a generation more refinedImprov'd the simple plan; made three legs four,Gave them a twisted form vermicular,And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuff'd,Induced a splendid cover, green and blue,Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wroughtAnd woven close, or needlework sublime.There might ye see the piony spread wide,The full blown rose, the shepherd and his lass,Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes,And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.Now came the cane from India, smooth and brightWith Nature's varnish, sever'd into stripesThat interlaced each other, these suppliedOf texture firm a lattice work, that bracedThe new machine, and it became a chair.But restless was the chair; the back erectDistress'd the weary loins, that felt no ease;The slippery seat betray'd the sliding partThat press'd it, and the feet hung dangling down,Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.These for the rich; the rest, whom Fate had placedIn modest mediocrity, contentWith base materials, sat on well tann'd hides,Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth,With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,Or scarlet crewel, in the cushion fix'd,If cushion might be call'd, what harder seem'dThan the firm oak of which the frame was form'd.No want of timber then was felt or fear'dIn Albion's happy isle. The lumber stoodPonderous and fix'd by its own massy weight.But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,An alderman of Cripplegate contrived;And some inscribe the invention to a priest,Burly and big, and studious of his ease.But, rude at first, and not with easy slopeReceding wide, they pressed against the ribs,And bruised the side; and, elevated high,Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears.Long time elapsed or e'er our rugged siresComplain'd, though incommodiously pent in,And ill at ease behind. The ladies first'Gan murmur, as became the softer sex.Ingenious Fancy, never better pleasedThan when employed to accommodate the fair,Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devisedThe soft settee; one elbow at each end,And in the midst an elbow it received,United yet divided, twain at once.So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne;And so two citizens, who take the air,Close pack'd, and smiling, in a chaise and one.But relaxation of the languid frame,By soft recumbency of outstretch'd limbs,Was bliss reserved for happier days. So slowThe growth of what is excellent; so hardTo attain perfection in this nether world.Thus first Necessity invented stools,Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs,And Luxury the accomplish'dSofalast.The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick,Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly heWho quits the coach-box at the midnight hour,To sleep within the carriage more secure,His legs depending at the open door.Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk,The tedious rector drawling o'er his head;And sweet the clerk below. But neither sleepOf lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead,Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour,To slumber in the carriage more secure,Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk,Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet,Compared with the repose the Sofa yields.Oh may I live exempted (while I liveGuiltless of pampered appetite obscene)From pangs arthritic, that infest the toeOf libertine Excess! The Sofa suitsThe gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb,Though on a Sofa, may I never feel:For I have loved the rural walk through lanesOf grassy swarth, close cropp'd by nibbling sheep,And skirted thick with intertexture firmOf thorny boughs; have loved the rural walkO'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink,E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my boundsTo enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames;And still remember, nor without regretOf hours that sorrow since has much endear'd,How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed,Still hungering, pennyless, and far from home,I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,Or blushing crabs, or berries, that embossThe bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere.Hard fare! but such as boyish appetiteDisdains not; nor the palate, undepravedBy culinary arts, unsavoury deems.No Sofa then awaited my return;Nor Sofa then I needed. Youth repairsHis wasted spirits quickly, by long toilIncurring short fatigue; and though our years,As life declines, speed rapidly away,And not a year but pilfers as he goesSome youthful grace, that age would gladly keep;A tooth or auburn lock, and by degreesTheir length and colour from the locks they spare;The elastic spring of an unwearied foot,That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence,That play of lungs, inhaling and againRespiring freely the fresh air, that makesSwift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,Mine have not pilfer'd yet; nor yet impair'dMy relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothedOr charm'd me young, no longer young, I findStill soothing, and of power to charm me still.And witness, dear companion of my walks,Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceiveFast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love,Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth,And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire—Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere,And that my raptures are not conjured upTo serve occasions of poetic pomp,But genuine, and art partner of them all.How oft upon yon eminence our paceHas slacken'd to a pause, and we have borneThe ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew,While Admiration, feeding at the eye,And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'dThe distant plough slow moving, and besideHis labouring team, that swerv'd not from the track,The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plainOf spacious meads, with cattle sprinkled o'er,Conducts the eye along his sinuous courseDelighted. There, fast rooted in their bank,Stand, never overlook'd, our favourite elms,That screen the herdsman's solitary hut;While far beyond, and overthwart the stream,That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,The sloping land recedes into the clouds;Displaying on its varied side the graceOf hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower,Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bellsJust undulates upon the listening ear,Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote.Scenes must be beautiful which, daily view'd,Please daily, and whose novelty survivesLong knowledge and the scrutiny of years—Praise justly due to those that I describe.Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds,Exhilarate the spirit, and restoreThe tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading woodOf ancient growth, make music not unlikeThe dash of Ocean on his winding shore,And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast,And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once.Nor less composure waits upon the roarOf distant floods, or on the softer voiceOf neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slipThrough the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fallUpon loose pebbles, lose themselves at lengthIn matted grass, that with a livelier greenBetrays the secret of their silent course.Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,But animated nature sweeter still,To soothe and satisfy the human ear.Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and oneThe livelong night: nor these alone, whose notesNice-finger'd Art must emulate in vain,But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublimeIn still-repeated circles, screaming loud,The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl,That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,And only there, please highly for their sake.Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thoughtDevised the weather-house, that useful toy!Fearless of humid air and gathering rains,Forth steps the man—an emblem of myself!More delicate his timorous mate retires.When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet,Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,Or ford the rivulets, are best at home,The task of new discoveries falls on me.At such a season, and with such a charge,Once went I forth; and found, till then unknown,A cottage, whither oft we since repair:'Tis perched upon the green hill top, but closeEnviron'd with a ring of branching elms,That overhang the thatch, itself unseenPeeps at the vale below; so thick besetWith foliage of such dark redundant growth,I call'd the low-roof'd lodge thepeasant's nest.And, hidden as it is, and far remoteFrom such unpleasing sounds as haunt the earIn village or in town, the bay of cursIncessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,And infants clamorous whether pleased or pain'd,Oft have I wish'd the peaceful covert mine.Here, I have said, at least I should possessThe poet's treasure, silence, and indulgeThe dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreatDearly obtains the refuge it affords.Its elevated site forbids the wretchTo drink sweet waters of the crystal well;He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,And, heavy laden, brings his beverage home,Far fetch'd and little worth; nor seldom waits,Dependent on the baker's punctual call,To hear his creaking panniers at the door,Angry and sad, and his last crust consumed.So farewell envy of the peasant's nest!If solitude make scant the means of life,Society for me!—thou seeming sweet,Be still a pleasing object in my view;My visit still, but never mine abode.Not distant far, a length of colonnadeInvites us. Monument of ancient taste,Now scorn'd, but worthy of a better fate.Our fathers knew the value of a screenFrom sultry suns; and, in their shaded walksAnd long protracted bowers, enjoyed at noonThe gloom and coolness of declining day.We bear our shades about us; self-deprivedOf other screen, the thin umbrella spread,And range an Indian waste without a tree.Thanks to Benevolus,[806]he spares me yetThese chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines;And, though himself so polished, still reprievesThe obsolete prolixity of shade.Descending now,—but cautious, lest too fast,—A sudden steep upon a rustic bridge,We pass a gulf, in which the willows dipTheir pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.Hence, ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme,We mount again, and feel at every stepOur foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil.He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,Disfigures earth: and, plotting in the dark,Toils much to earn a monumental pile,That may record the mischiefs he has done.The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcoveThat crowns it! yet not all its pride securesThe grand retreat from injuries impress'dBy rural carvers, who with knives defaceThe panels, leaving an obscure, rude name,In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.So strong the zeal to immortalize himselfBeats in the breast of man, that e'en a few,Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorr'dOf blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize,And even to a clown. Now roves the eye;And, posted on this speculative height,Exults in its command. The sheepfold herePours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe.At first, progressive as a stream, they seekThe middle field; but, scatter'd by degrees,Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land.There from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward creepsThe loaded wain; while, lighten'd of its charge,The wain that meets it passes swiftly by;The boorish driver leaning o'er his teamVociferous and impatient of delay.Nor less attractive is the woodland scene,Diversified with trees of every growth,Alike, yet various. Here the grey smooth trunksOf ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine,Within the twilight of their distant shades;There, lost behind a rising ground, the woodSeems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs.No tree in all the grove but has its charms,Though each its hue peculiar; paler some,And of a wannish grey; the willow such,And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf,And ash far stretching his umbrageous arm;Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still,Lord of the woods, the long surviving oak.Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun,The maple, and the beech of oily nutsProlific, and the lime at dewy eveDiffusing odours: nor unnoted passThe sycamore, capricious in attire,Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yetHave changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious mapOf hill and valley interposed between),The Ouse, dividing the well water'd land,Now glitters in the sun, and now retires,As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.Hence the declivity is sharp and short,And such the re-ascent; between them weepsA little naiad her impoverish'd urnAll summer long, which winter fills again.The folded gates would bar my progress now,But that the lord[806]enclosed demesne,Communicative of the good he owns,Admits me to a share: the guiltless eyeCommits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys.Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun?By short transition we have lost his glare,And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime.Ye fallen avenues! once more I mournYour fate unmerited, once more rejoiceThat yet a remnant of your race survives.How airy and how light the graceful arch,Yet awful as the consecrated roofRe-echoing pious anthems! while beneathThe chequer'd earth seems restless as a floodBrush'd by the wind. So sportive is the lightShot through the boughs, it dances as they dance,Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,And darkening and enlightening, as the leavesPlay wanton, every moment, every spot.And now, with nerves new braced and spirits cheer'd,We tread the wilderness, whose well roll'd walks,With curvature of slow and easy sweep—Deception innocent—give ample spaceTo narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;Between the upright shafts of whose tall elmsWe may discern the thresher at his task.Thump after thump resounds the constant flail,That seems to swing uncertain, and yet fallsFull on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff;The rustling straw sends up a frequent mistOf atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam.Come hither, ye that press your beds of downAnd sleep not; see him sweating o'er his breadBefore he eats it.—'Tis the primal curse,But soften'd into mercy; made the pledgeOf cheerful days, and nights without a groan.By ceaseless action all that is subsists.Constant rotation of the unwearied wheelThat Nature rides upon maintains her health,Her beauty, her fertility. She dreadsAn instant's pause, and lives but while she moves.Its own revolvency upholds the world.Winds from all quarters agitate the air,And fit the limpid element for use,Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams,All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansedBy restless undulation: e'en the oakThrives by the rude concussion of the storm:He seems indeed indignant, and to feelThe impression of the blast with proud disdain,Frowning, as if in his unconscious armHe held the thunder: but the monarch owesHis firm stability to what he scorns—More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above.The law, by which all creatures else are bound,Binds man, the lord of all. Himself derivesNo mean advantage from a kindred cause,From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease.The sedentary stretch their lazy lengthWhen custom bids, but no refreshment find,For none they need: the languid eye, the cheekDeserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk,And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul,Reproach their owner with that love of restTo which he forfeits e'en the rest he loves.Not such the alert and active. Measure lifeBy its true worth, the comforts it affords,And theirs alone seems worthy of the name.Good health, and, its associate in the most,Good temper: spirits prompt to undertake,And not soon spent, though in an arduous task;The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs;E'en age itself seems privileged in them,With clear exemption from its own defects.A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled frontThe veteran shows, and, gracing a grey beardWith youthful smiles, descends toward the graveSprightly, and old almost without decay.Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most,Farthest retires—an idol, at whose shrineWho oftenest sacrifice are favour'd least.The love of Nature and the scenes she drawsIs Nature's dictate. Strange! there should be found,Who, self-imprison'd in their proud saloons,Renounce the odours of the open fieldFor the unscented fictions of the loom;Who, satisfied with only pencil'd scenes,Prefer to the performance of a GodThe inferior wonders of an artist's hand!Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art;But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire,None more admires, the painter's magic skill,Who shows me that which I shall never see,Conveys a distant country into mine,And throws Italian light on English walls.But imitative strokes can do no moreThan please the eye—sweet Nature every sense.The air salubrious of her lofty hills,The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales,And music of her woods—no works of manMay rival these; these all bespeak a powerPeculiar, and exclusively her own.Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;'Tis free to all—'tis every day renew'd;Who scorns it starves deservedly at home.He does not scorn it, who, imprison'd longIn some unwholesome dungeon, and a preyTo sallow sickness, which the vapours, dankAnd clammy, of his dark abode have bred,Escapes at last to liberty and light:His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue;His eye relumines its extinguish'd fires;He walks, he leaps, he runs—is wing'd with joy,And riots in the sweets of every breeze.He does not scorn it, who has long enduredA fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamedWith acrid salts; his very heart athirstTo gaze at Nature in her green array,Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'dWith visions prompted by intense desire:Fair fields appear below, such as he leftFar distant, such as he would die to find—He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown,And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort,And mar the face of beauty, when no causeFor such immeasurable woe appears,These Flora banishes, and gives the fairSweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own.It is the constant revolution, staleAnd tasteless, of the same repeated joys,That palls and satiates, and makes languid lifeA pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down.Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heartRecoils from its own choice—at the full feastIs famish'd—finds no music in the song,No smartness in the jest; and wonders why.Yet thousands still desire to journey on,Though halt, and weary of the path they tread.The paralytic, who can hold her cards,But cannot play them, borrows a friend's handTo deal and shuffle, to divide and sortHer mingled suits and sequences; and sits,Spectatress both and spectacle, a sadAnd silent cipher, while her proxy plays.Others are dragg'd into the crowded roomBetween supporters; and, once seated, sits,Through downright inability to rise,Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again.These speak a loud memento. Yet e'en theseThemselves love life, and cling to it, as heThat overhangs a torrent to a twig.They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die,Yet scorn the purposes for which they live.Then wherefore not renounce them? No—the dread,The slavish dread of solitude, that breedsReflection and remorse, the fear of shame,And their inveterate habits, all forbid.Whom call we gay? That honour has been longThe boast of mere pretenders to the name.The innocent are gay—the lark is gay,That dries his feathers, saturate with dew,Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beamsOf dayspring overshoot his humble nest.The peasant too, a witness of his song,Himself a songster, is as gay as he.But save me from the gaiety of thoseWhose headaches nail them to a noon-day bed;And save me too from theirs whose haggard eyesFlash desperation, and betray their pangsFor property stripp'd off by cruel chance;From gaiety, that fills the bones with pain,The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe.The earth was made so various, that the mindOf desultory man, studious of change,And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.Prospects, however lovely, may be seenTill half their beauties fade; the weary sight,Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides offFastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.Then snug enclosures in the shelter'd vale,Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,Delight us; happy to renounce awhile,Not senseless of its charms, what still we love,That such short absence may endear it more.Then forests, or the savage rock, may please,That hides the sea-mew in his hollow cleftsAbove the reach of man. His hoary head,Conspicuous many a league, the mariner,Bound homeward, and in hope already there,Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waistA girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows,And at his feet the baffled billows die.The common, overgrown with fern, and roughWith prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd,And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom,And decks itself with ornaments of gold,Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turfSmells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbsAnd fungous fruits of earth, regales the senseWith luxury of unexpected sweets.There often wanders one, whom better daysSaw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'dWith lace, and hat with splendid riband bound.A serving maid was she, and fell in loveWith one who left her, went to sea, and died.Her fancy follow'd him through foaming wavesTo distant shores; and she would sit and weepAt what a sailor suffers; fancy too,Delusive most where warmest wishes are,Would oft anticipate his glad return,And dream of transports she was not to know.She heard the doleful tidings of his death—And never smiled again! and now she roamsThe dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,And there, unless when charity forbids,The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides,Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gownMore tatter'd still; and both but ill concealA bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.She begs an idle pin of all she meets,And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,Though pinch'd with cold, asks never.—Kate is crazed!I see a column of slow-rising smokeO'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild.A vagabond and useless tribe there eatTheir miserable meal. A kettle, slungBetween two poles upon a stick transverse,Receives the morsel—flesh obscene of dog,Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'dFrom his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race!They pick their fuel out of every hedge,Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'dThe spark of life. The sportive wind blows wideTheir fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin,The vellum of the pedigree they claim.Great skill have they in palmistry, and moreTo conjure clean away the gold they touch,Conveying worthless dross into its place;Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.Strange! that a creature rational, and castIn human mould, should brutalize by choiceHis nature; and, though capable of arts,By which the world might profit, and himself,Self-banish'd from society, preferSuch squalid sloth to honourable toil!Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft,They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb,And vex their flesh with artificial sores,Can change their whine into a mirthful noteWhen safe occasion offers; and with dance,And music of the bladder and the bag,Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound.Such health and gaiety of heart enjoyThe houseless rovers of the sylvan world;And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering much,Need other physic none to heal the effectsOf loathsome diet, penury, and cold.Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crowdBy wealth or dignity, who dwells secure,Where man, by nature fierce, has laid asideHis fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn,The manners and the arts of civil life.His wants indeed are many; but supplyIs obvious, placed within the easy reachOf temperate wishes and industrious hands.Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil;Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns,And terrible to sight, as when she springs(If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remoteAnd barbarous climes, where violence prevails,And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind,By culture tamed, by liberty refresh'd,And all her fruits by radiant truth matured.War and the chase engross the savage whole,War follow'd for revenge, or to supplantThe envied tenants of some happier spot:The chase for sustenance, precarious trust!His hard condition with severe constraintBinds all his faculties, forbids all growthOf wisdom, proves a school, in which he learnsSly circumvention, unrelenting hate,Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside.Thus fare the shivering natives of the north,And thus the rangers of the western world,Where it advances far into the deep,Towards the antarctic. E'en the favour'd isles,So lately found, although the constant sunCheer all their seasons with a grateful smile,Can boast but little virtue; and, inertThrough plenty, lose in morals what they gainIn manners—victims of luxurious ease.These therefore I can pity, placed remoteFrom all that science traces, art invents,Or inspiration teaches; and enclosedIn boundless oceans, never to be pass'dBy navigators uninform'd as they,Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again:But, far beyond the rest, and with most cause,Thee, gentle savage![807]whom no love of theeOr thine, but curiosity, perhaps,Or else vain-glory, prompted us to drawForth from thy native bowers, to show thee hereWith what superior skill we can abuseThe gifts of Providence, and squander life.The dream is past; and thou hast found againThy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast thou foundTheir former charms? And, having seen our state,Our palaces, our ladies, and our pompOf equipage, our gardens and our sports,And heard our music; are thy simple friends,Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delightsAs dear to thee as once? And have thy joysLost nothing by comparison with ours?Rude as thou art (for we return'd thee rudeAnd ignorant, except of outward show),I cannot think thee yet so dull of heartAnd spiritless as never to regretSweets tasted here, and left as soon as known.Methinks I see thee straying on the beach,And asking of the surge that bathes thy foot,If ever it has wash'd our distant shore.I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears,A patriot's for his country: thou art sadAt 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 she paints thee thus.She tells me, too, that duly every mornThou climb'st the mountain top, with eager eyeExploring far and wide the watery wasteFor sight of ship from England. Every speckSeen in the dim horizon turns thee paleWith conflict of contending hopes and fears.But comes at last the dull and dusky eve,And sends thee to thy cabin, well preparedTo dream all night of what the day denied.Alas! expect it not. We found no baitTo 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 bribed to compass earth againBy other hopes and richer fruits than yours.But though true worth and virtue in the mildAnd genial soil of cultivated lifeThrive 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 sewer,The dregs and feculence of every land.In cities foul example on most mindsBegets 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, taughtBy frequent lapse, can hope no triumph thereBeyond the achievement of successful flight.I do confess them nurseries of the arts,In which they flourish most; where, in the beamsOf warm encouragement, and in the eyeOf public note, they reach their perfect size.Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'dThe fairest capital of all the world:By riot and incontinence the worst.There touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomesA lucid mirror, in which Nature seesAll her reflected features. Bacon thereGives more than female beauty to a stone,And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.Nor does the chisel occupy aloneThe powers of sculpture, but the style as much;Each province of her art her equal care.With nice incision of her guided steelShe ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soilSo sterile with what charms soe'er she will,The richest scenery and the loveliest forms.Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye,With which she gazes at yon burning diskUndazzled, and detects and counts his spots?In London: where her implements exact,With which she calculates, computes, and scansAll distance, motion, magnitude, and nowMeasures 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, enlarged, and stillIncreasing London? Babylon of oldNot 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 fairMay yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise.It is not seemly, nor of good report,That she is slack in discipline; more promptTo avenge than to prevent the breach of law:That she is rigid in denouncing deathOn petty robbers, and indulges lifeAnd liberty, and ofttimes honour too,To peculators of the public gold:That thieves at home must hang; but he, that putsInto his over-gorged and bloated purseThe wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.Nor is it well, nor can it come to good,That, through profane and infidel contemptOf holy writ, she has presumed to annulAnd 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 modesAnd customs of her own, till sabbath ritesHave dwindled into unrespected forms,And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced.God made the country, and man made the town,What wonder then that health and virtue, giftsThat can alone make sweet the bitter draughtThat life holds out to all, should most aboundAnd least be threaten'd in the fields and groves?Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne aboutIn chariots and sedans, know no fatigueBut that of idleness, and taste no scenesBut such as art contrives, possess ye stillYour element; there only can ye shine;There only minds like yours can do no harm.Our groves were planted to console at noonThe pensive wanderer in their shades. At eveThe moonbeam, sliding softly in betweenThe sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,Birds warbling all the music. We can spareThe splendour of your lamps; they but eclipseOur softer satellite. Your songs confoundOur more harmonious notes; the thrush departsScared, and the offended nightingale is mute.There is a public mischief in your mirth;It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,Graced 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.