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 sew'r, The dregs and feculence of ev'ry land. In cities foul example on most minds Begets 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, 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.
Oh thou, resort and mart of all the earth, Chequer'd with all complexions of mankind, And spotted with all crimes; in whom I see Much that I love, and more that I admire, And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair, That pleasest and yet shock'st me, I can laugh And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, Feel wrath and pity, when I think on thee! Ten righteous would have sav'd a city once, And thou hast many righteous.-Well for theeThat salt preserves thee; more corrupted else, And therefore more obnoxious, at this hour Than Sodom in her day had pow'r to be,
For whom God heard his Abr'am plead in vain.
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, born 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 your's 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 your's, 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.
OH for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war,
Might never reach me more. My ear is pain'd, My soul is sick, with ev'ry day's report
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,
It does not feel for man; the natʼral bond Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not colour'd like his own; and, having pow'r T'enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd
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