We bear our shades about us: self-depriv'd
Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread,
And range an Indian waste without a tree.
Thanks to Benevolus *—he spares me yet
These chesnuts rang'd in corresponding lines;
And, though himself so polish'd, still reprieves
The 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 dip
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.
Hence, ancle-deep in moss and flow'ry thyme
We mount again, and feel at ev'ry step
Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,
Rais'd 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 alcove That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures The grand retreat from injuries impress'd By rural carvers, who with knives deface The pannels, leaving an obscure, rude name, In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. So strong the zeal t' immortalize himself Beats in the breast of man, that ev'n a few, Few transient years, won from th' abyss abhorr'd Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, And even to a clown. Now roves the eye; And, posted on this speculative height, Exults in it's command. The sheep-fold here Pours out it's fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. At first progressive as a stream, they seek The middle field; but, scatter'd by degrees, Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. There from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward creeps The loaded wain; while, lighten'd of its charge, The wain that meets it passes swiftly by; The boorish driver leaning o'er his team Vocif 'rous, and impatient of delay. Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, Diversified with trees of ev'ry growth, Alike, yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, Within the twilight of their distant shades; There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs. No tree in all the grove but has it's charms, Though each it's hue peculiar; paler some, And of a wannish gray; 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-leav'd, and shining in the sun, The maple, and the beech of oily nuts Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve Diffusing odours: nor unnoted pass The sycamore, capricious in attire, Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet Have chang'd the woods, in scarlet honours bright. O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map Of hill and valley interpos'd between), The Ouse, dividing the well-water'd land, Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.

*John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq. of Weston Underwood.

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Hence the declivity is sharp and short,
And such the re-ascent; between them weeps
A little naiad her impov'rish'd urn
All summer long, which winter fills again.
The folded gates would bar my progress now,
But that the lord + of this enclos'd demesne,
Communicative of the good he owns,
Admits me to a share; the guiltless eye
Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys
Refreshing change! where now the blazing Sun Ev
By short transition we have lost his glare,
And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime.
Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn
Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice,
That yet a remnant of your race survives,
How airy and how light the graceful arch,
Yet aweful as the consecrated roof
Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath
The checker'd earth seems restless as a flood
Brush'd by the wind. So sportive is the light
Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance,
Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,
And dark'ning and enlight'ning, as the leaves
Play wanton, ev'ry moment, ev'ry spot. [cheer
And now, with nerves new-brac'd and spi
We tread the wilderness, whose well-roll'd walks
With curvature of slow and easy sweep-
Deception innocent - give ample space
To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;
Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms
We may discern the thresher at his task.
Thump after thump resounds the constant fail,
That seems to swing uncertain, and yet falls
Full on the destin'd ear. Wide flies the chaff,
The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist
Of atoms, sparkling in the noon-day beam.
Come hither, ye that press your beds of down,
And sleep not; see him sweating o'er his bread
Before he eats it. -'T is the primal curse,
But soften'd into mercy; made the pledge
Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan
By ceaseless action all that is subsists.
Constant rotation of th' unwearied wheel,
That Nature rides upon, maintains her health,
Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads
An 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 fresh'ning impulse, and are cleans'd
By restless undulation: ev'n the oak
Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm:
He seems indeed indignant, and to feel
Th' impression of the blast with proud disdain,
Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm
He held the thunder: but the monarch owes
His 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 derives
No mean advantage from a kindred cause,
From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease.
The sedentary stretch their lazy length
When Custom bids, but no refreshment find,
For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek

Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk,
And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul,

+ See the foregoing note.

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eproach their owner with that love of rest, o which he forfeits ev'n the rest he loves. ot such the alert and active. Measure life y it's true worth, the comforts it affords, Ind theirs alone seems worthy of the name. ood health, and, it's associate in the most, ood temper; spirits prompt to undertake, nd not soon spent, though in an arduous task; he pow'rs of fancy and strong thought are theirs; v'n age itself seems privileg'd in them 'ith clear exemption from it's own defects. sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front he vet'ran shows, and, gracing a gray beard ith youthful smiles, descends toward the grave rightly, and old almost without decay. Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, arthest retires. - an idol, at whose shrine ho oft'nest sacrifice are favour'd least. he love of Nature, and the scenes she draws, Nature's dictate. Strange! there should be found, ho, self-imprison'd in their proud salons, enounce the odours of the open field or the unscented fictions of the loom; ho, satisfied with only pencill'd scenes, efer to the performance of a God 'inferior wonders of an artist's hand! vely indeed the mimic works of Art; it Nature's works far lovelier.

I admire, one more admires, the painter's magic skill, ho shows me that which I shall never see, onveys a distant country into mine,

nd throws Italian light on English walls: it imitative strokes can do no more an please the eye sweet Nature's, ev'ry sense. he air salubrious of her lofty hills, he cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, nd music of her woods -no works of man ay rival these, these all bespeak a pow'r culiar, and exclusively her own. neath the open sky she spreads the feast; is free to all—'t is ev'ry day renew'd; ho scorns it starves deservedly at home. e does not scorn it, who, imprison'd long some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey sallow sickness, which the vapours, dank nd clammy, of his dark abode have bred, scapes at last to liberty and light:

is cheek recovers soon it's healthful hue; is eye relumines it's extinguish'd fires;

e walks, he leaps, he runs-is wing'd with joy, ad riots in the sweets of ev'ry breeze.

e does not scorn it, who has long endur'd fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. or yet the mariner, his blood inflam'd ith acrid salts; his very heart athirst, gaze at Nature in her green array, pon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd ith visions prompted by intense desire : ir fields appear below, such as he left ir distant, such as he would die to find e seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns; he low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown, nd sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort, nd mar, the face of Beauty, when no cause or such immeasurable woe appears, hese Flora banishes, and gives the fair

weet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. t is the constant revolution, stale And tasteless, of the same repeated joys,

That palls and satiates, and makes languid life
A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down.
Health suffers, and the spirits ebb, the heart
Recoils from it's own choice at the full feast
Is 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 hand,
To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort
Her mingled suits and sequences; and sits,
Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad
And silent cipher, while her proxy plays.
Others are dragg'd into the crowded room
Between supporters; and, once seated, sit,
Through downright inability to rise,

Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again.
These speak a loud memento. Yet ev'n these
Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he,
That overhangs a torrent, to a twig.

They love it, and yet loath 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 breeds
Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame,
And their invet'rate habits, all forbid.

Whom call we gay? That honour has been long The boast of mere pretenders to the name. The innocent are gay · the lark is gay, That drys his feathers, saturate with dew, Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams Of day-spring over-shoot 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 those, Whose headaches nail them to a noonday bed; And save me too from theirs, whose haggard eyes Flash desperation, and betray their pangs For 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 mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleas'd with novelty, might be indulg'd. Prospects, however lovely, may be seen Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight, Too well acquainted with their smile, slides off Fastidious, 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 seamew in his hollow clefts Above 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 waist A girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows, And at his feet the baffled billows die. The common, overgrown with fern, and rough With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd, And dang'rous to the touch, has yet it's bloom, And decks itself with ornaments of gold, Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf Smells fresh, and, rich in odorif'rous herbs And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense With luxury of unexpected sweets.

But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, And sends thee to thy cabin, well-prepar'd To dream all night of what the day denied. . Alas! expect it not. We found no bait To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, Disinterested good, is not our trade.

We travel far, 't is true, but not for nought; And must be brib'd to compass Earth again By other hopes and richer fruits than yours.

But though true worth and virtue in the mild
And genial soil of cultivated life

Thrive 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 ev'ry land.
In cities foul example on most minds.
Begets it's 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, taught
By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there
Beyond th' achievement of successful flight.
I do confess them nurs'ries of the arts,
In which they flourish most; where in the beams
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye
Of public note, they reach their perfect size.
Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd
The fairest capital of all the world,
By riot and incontinence the worst.
There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes
A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees
All her reflected features. Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.
Nor does the chisel occupy alone

The pow'rs of sculpture, but the style as much;
Each province of her art her equal care.
With nice incision of her guided steel
She plows a brazen field, and clothes a soil
So sterile with what charms so'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 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;

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 cent'ring 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, We can spare Birds warbling all the music. 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.

Book II.

THE TIME-PIECE. Argument.

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Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former book. Peace among the nations recommended on the ground of their common fellowship in sorrow. Prodigies enumerated. cilian earthquakes. Man rendered obnoxious to these calamities by sin. God the agent in them. The philosophy that stops at secondary causes reproved. Our own late miscarriages accounted for. Satirical notice taken of our trips to Fontaine-Bleau. But the pulpit, not satire, the The reverend proper engine of reformation. advertiser of engraved sermons. parson. The good preacher. theatrical clerical coxcomb. Story-tellers and jesters in the pulpit reproved. Apostrophe to popular applause. Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with. Sum of the whole Effects of sacerdotal mismanagement on the laity. Their folly and extravagance. The mischiefs of profusion. Profusion itself, with all it's consequent evils, ascribed, as to it's principal cause, to the want of discipline in the universities.

matter.

Petit-maître Picture of a

Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit,

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