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 richest scen'ry and the loveliest forms.
Where finds philofophy her eagle eye,
With which the 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, 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 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 fhow this queen of cities, that so fair
May yet be foul; fo witty, yet not wife.
It is not feemly, nor of good report,

That she is flack in difcipline; more prompt
T' avenge than to prevent the breach of law:
That she is rigid in denouncing death
On petty robbers, and indulges life

And liberty, and oft-times honour too,

To peculators of the public gold:

That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts

Into his overgorg'd and bloated purse

The wealth of Indian provinces, efcapes.
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good,
That, through profane and infidel contempt
Of holy writ, fhe has prefum'd t' annul
And abrogate, as roundly as she may,
The total ordinance and will of God;
Advancing fashion to the post of truth,
And cent'ring all authority in modes

And customs of her own, till fabbath rites

Have dwindled into unrespected forms,

And knees and haffocs 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, fhould most abound And leaft be threaten'd in the fields and

groves

Poffefs ye, therefore, ye, who, born about
In chariots and fedans, know no fatigue

But that of idleness, and taste no scenes
But fuch as art contrives, poffefs ye ftill
Your element; there only can ye shine;
There only minds like your's can do no harm.
Our groves were planted to confole at noon.
The penfive wand'rer in their fhades. At eve
The moon-beam, fliding foftly in between
The Leeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
Birds warbling all the mufic. We can spare
The splendour of your lamps; they but eclipse

?

Our fofter fatellite. Your fongs 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 fuch as your's,
Grac'd with a fword, 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, foon to fall.