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 sterile with what charms soe'er she will, The richest scen'ry and the loveliest forms. Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye, With which she gazes at yon burning disk Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots ? In London: where her implements exact, With which she calculates, computes, and scans, All distance, motion, magnitude, and now Measures an atom, and now girds a world?
In London. Where has commerce such a mart, So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, As London-opulent, enlarg'd, and still Increasing, London? Babylon of old
Not more the glory of the Earth than she, A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now. She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, That so much beauty would do well to purge; And show this queen of cities, that so fair May yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise. It is not seemly, nor of good report,
That she is slack in discipline; more prompt Tavenge 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. God made the country, and man made the town. What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts, That can alone make sweet the bitter draught, That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves? Possess ye therefore, ye who, 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 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.
THE WINTER EVENING.
ARK! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, That with it's wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumb'ring at his back. True to his charge, the close pack'd load behind, Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destin'd inn;
And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some; To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charg'd with am'rous sighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all. But O th' important budget! usher'd in With such heart-shaking music, who can say What are it's tidings? have our troops awak'd? Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd, Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave? Is India free? and does she wear her plum'd And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, The popular harangue, the tart reply, The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all; I burn to set th' imprison'd wranglers free, And give them voice and utt'rance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in. Not such his ev'ning, who with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeez'd And bor'd with elbow-points through both his sides, Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. This folio of four pages, happy work! Which not ev'n critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive Attention, while I read,
Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it, but a map of busy life,
It's fluctuations, and it's vast concerns? Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge, That tempts Ambition. On the summit see The seals of office glitter in his eyes;
He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels, Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,
And with a dext'rous jerk soon twists him down, And wins them, but to loose them in his turn. Here rills of oily eloquence in soft
Meanders lubricate the course they take; The modest speaker is asham'd and griev'd, Tengross a moment's notice; and yet begs, Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise; The dearth of information and good sense,
That it foretells us, always comes to pass. Cat'racts of declamation thunder here; There forests of no meaning spread the page, In which all comprehension wanders lost; While fields of pleasantry amuse us there With merry descants on a nation's woes. The rest appears a wilderness of strange But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks, And lilies for the brows of faded age, Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Heav'n, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets, Nectarcous essences, Olympian dews, Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs, Ethereal journies, submarine exploits, And Katerfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread. 'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; To hear the roar she sends through all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear. Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and it's concerns, I seem advanc'd To some secure and more than mortal height, That lib'rates and exempts me from them all, It turns submitted to my view, turns round With all it's generations; I behold
The tumult, and am still. The sound of war Has lost it's terrours ere it reaches me; Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride And av'rice, that make man a wolf to man; Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, By which he speaks the language of his heart, And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. He travels and expatiates, as the bee From flow'r to flow'r, so he from land to land; The manners, customs, policy, of all
Pay contribution to the store he gleans;
He sucks intelligence in ev'ry clime,
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