I sing the Sofa.
I who lately
Truth,
Hope, and Charity, and touched with
The 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
The 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
Washed by the sea, or on the gravelly
Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud,
Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength.
Those barbarous ages past, succeeded
The birthday of invention, weak at first,
Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.
Joint-stools were then created; on three
Upborne they stood, — three legs upholding firmA massy slab, in fashion square or round.
On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,
And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms;
And such in ancient halls and mansions
May still be seen, but perforated
And drilled in holes the solid oak is found,
By worms voracious eating through and through.
At length a generation more
Improved the simple plan, made three legs four,
Gave them a twisted form vermicular,
And o'er the seat with plenteous wadding
Induced a splendid cover green and blue,
Yellow and red, of tapestry richly
And woven close, or needle-work sublime.
There might ye see the peony spread wide,
The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass,
Lap-dog and lambkin with black staring eyes,
And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.
Now came the cane from India, smooth and
With Nature's varnish; severed into
That interlaced each other, these supplied Of texture firm a lattice-work, that
The new machine, and it became a chair.
But restless was the chair; the back erect Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease;
The slippery seat betrayed the sliding
That pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down,
Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.
These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had
In modest mediocrity,
With base materials, sat on well-tanned
Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth,
With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,
Or scarlet crewel in the cushion fixed:
If cushion might be called, what harder
Than the firm oak of which the frame was formed.
No want of timber then was felt or
In Albion's happy isle. The lumber
Ponderous, and fixed by its own massy weight.
But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,
An Alderman of Cripplegate contrived,
And some ascribe the invention to a
Burly and big and studious of his ease.
But rude at first, and not with easy
Receding wide, they pressed against the ribs,
And bruised the side, and elevated
Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears.
Long time elapsed or ere our rugged
Complained, though incommodiously pent in,
And ill at ease behind. The ladies first'Gan murmur, as became the softer sex.
Ingenious fancy, never better
Than when employed to accommodate the fair,
Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised The soft settee; one elbow at each end,
And in the midst an elbow, it
United yet divided, twain at once.
So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne;
And so two citizens who take the
Close packed and smiling in a chaise and one.
But relaxation of the languid
By soft recumbency of outstretched limbs,
Was bliss reserved for happier days; — so
The growth of what is excellent, so
To attain perfection in this nether world.
Thus first necessity invented stools,
Convenience next suggested elbow chairs,
And luxury the accomplished sofa last.
The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the
Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly
Who quits the coach-box at the midnight
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
Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead,
Nor his who quits the box at midnight
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
Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene,)From pangs arthritic that infest the
Of libertine excess. The sofa
The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb,
Though on a sofa, may I never feel:
For I have loved the rural walk through
Of grassy swarth close cropt by nibbling sheep,
And skirted thick with intertexture
Of thorny boughs; have loved the rural walkO'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brinkE'er since a truant boy I passed my
To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames.
And still remember, nor without
Of hours that sorrow since has much endeared,
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
The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere,
Hard fare! but such as boyish
Disdains not, nor the palate
By culinary arts unsavoury deems.
No sofa then awaited my return,
Nor sofa then I needed. Youth
His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil Incurring short fatigue; and though our years,
As life declines, speed rapidly away,
And not a year but pilfers as he
Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep,
A tooth or auburn lock, and by
Their 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
Respiring freely the fresh air, that
Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,
Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet
My relish of fair prospect: scenes that
Or charmed me young, no longer young,
I
Still soothing and of power to charm me still.
And witness, dear companion of my walks,
Whose arm this twentieth winter I
Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as
Confirmed by long experience of thy
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 conjur'd
To serve occasions of poetic pomp,
But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have
The 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
The distant plough slow moving, and
His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track,
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along its sinuous
Delighted.
There, fast rooted in his bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms,
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The sloping land recedes into the clouds;
Displaying on its varied side the
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful
Just undulates upon the list'ning ear,
Groves, heaths and smoking villages remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily view'd,
Please daily, and whose novelty
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe.
Nor rural sights alone, but rural
Exhilarate the spirit, and
The tone of languid nature. Mighty
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading
Of ancient growth, make music not
The dash of ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind,
Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at
Nor less composure waits upon the
Of distant floods, or on the softer
Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that
Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at
In matted grass, that with a livelier
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
But animated nature sweeter
To soothe and satisfy the human ear.
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The livelong night: nor these alone whose
Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain,
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim
In still repeated circles, screaming loud,
The jay, the pie, and even 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
And only there, please highly for their sake.
Peace to the artist, whose ingenious
Devised the weather-house, that useful toy!
Fearless of humid air and gathering
Forth steps the man, an emblem of myself;
More delicate his timorous mate retires.
When winter soaks the fields, and female
Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,
Or ford the the rivulets, are best at home,
The task of new discoveries falls on me.
At such a season and with such a
Once went I forth, and found, till then unknown,
A cottage, whither oft we since repair:'Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but
Environed with a ring of branching
That overhang the thatch, itself unseen,
Peeps at the vale below; so thick
With foliage of such dark redundant growth,
I called the low-roofed lodge the peasant's nest.
And hidden as it is, and far
From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the
In village or in town, the bay of
Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,
And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained,
Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine.
Here,
I have said, at least I should
The poet's treasure, silence, and
The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.
Vain thought! the dweller in that still
Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.
Its elevated site forbids the wretch To drink sweet waters of the crystal well;
He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,
And heavy-laden brings his beverage home,
Far-fetched 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
Invites us:
Monument of ancient taste,
Now scorned, but worthy of a better fate.
Our fathers knew the value of a
From sultry suns, and in their shaded walks And long-protracted bowers, enjoyed at
The gloom and coolness of declining day.
We bear our shades about us; self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread,
And range an Indian waste without a tree.
Thanks to Benevolus; he spares me
These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines,
And though himself so polished, still
The obsolete prolixity of shade.
Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast,)A sudden steep, upon a rustic
We pass a gulf in which the willows
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.
Hence ankle-deep in moss and flowery
We mount again, and feel at every
Our 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
Toils much to earn a monumental pile,
That may record the mischiefs he has done.
The summit gained, behold the proud
That crowns it! yet not all its pride
The grant retreat from injuries impressed By rural carvers, who with knives
The panels, leaving an obscure rude name In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.
So strong the zeal to immortalise himself Beats in the breast of man, that even a
Few transient years won from the abyss
Of 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 sheep-fold
Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe,
At first progressive as a stream, they
The middle field; but scattered by
Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land.
There, from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward
The loaded wain, while lightened of its
The wain that meets it passes swiftly by,
The boorish driver leaning o'er his
Vociferous, and impatient of delay.
Nor less attractive is the woodland scene,
Diversified with trees of every
Alike yet various. Here the gray smooth
Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine,
Within the twilight of their distant shades;
There lost behind a rising ground, the
Seems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs.
No tree in all the grove but has its charms,
Though each its hue peculiar; paler some,
And of a wanish gray; the willow
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
Prolific, and the line at dewy
Diffusing odours: nor unnoted
The sycamore, capricious in attire,
Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn
Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.
O'er these, but far beyond, (a spacious
Of hill and valley interposed between,)The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land,
Now glitters in the sun, and now retires,
As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.
Hence the declevity is sharp and short,
And such the re-ascent; between them weepsA little naiad her impoverished
All summer long, which winter fills again.
The folded gates would bar my progress now,
But that the lord of this enclosed demesne,
Communicative of the good he owns,
Admits me to a share: the guiltless
Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys.
Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun?
By short transition we have lost his glare,
And stepped at once into a cooler clime.
Ye fallen avenues! once more I
Your fate unmerited, once more
That yet a remnant of your race survives.
How airy and how light the graceful arch,
Yet awful as the consecrated
Re-echoing pious anthems! while
The chequered earth seems restless as a
Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the
Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance,
Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,
And darkening and enlightening, as the
Play wanton, every moment, every spot.
And now with nerves new-braced and spirits
We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled
With curvature of slow and easy sweep, —Deception innocent, — give ample
To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;
Between the upright shafts of whose tall
We may discern the thresher at his task.
Thump after thump, resounds the constant flail,
That seems to swing uncertain, and yet
Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff,
The rustling straw sends up a frequent
Of atoms sparkling in the noonday beam.
Come hither, ye that press your beds of
And sleep not, — see him sweating o'er his
Before he eats it. — 'Tis the primal curse,
But softened into mercy; made the
Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan.
By ceaseless action, all that is subsists.
Constant rotation of the unwearied
That nature rides upon, maintains her health,
Her beauty, her fertility. She
An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves.
Its own resolvency upholds the world.
Winds from all quarters agitate the air,
And fit the limpid elements for use,
Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and
By restless undulation. Even the
Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm;
He seems indeed indignant, and to
The impression of the blast with proud disdain,
Frowning as if in his unconscious
He held the thunder. But the monarch
His firm stability to what he scorns,
More fixed below, the more disturbed above.
The law by which all creatures else are bound,
Binds man the lord of all. Himself
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
Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk,
And withered muscle, and the vapid soul,
Reproach their owner with that love of
To which he forfeits even the rest he loves.
Not such the alert and active. Measure life By its true worth, the comforts it affords,
And theirs alone seems worthy of the
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;
Even age itself seems privileged in
With clear exemption from its own defects.
A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front The veteran shows, and gracing a gray
With youthful smiles, descends towards the
Sprightly, and old almost without decay.
Like a coy maiden, ease, when courted most,
Farthest retires, — an idol, at whose shrine Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least.
The love of nature, and the scenes she draws Is nature's dictate. Strange! there should be
Who self-imprisoned in their proud saloons,
Renounce the odours of the open
For the unscented fictions of the loom;
Who satisfied with only pencilled scenes,
Prefer to the performance of a God The 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
Than please the eye, sweet nature every sense.
The air salubrious of her lofty hills,
The cheering fragrance of her dewy
And music of her woods, — no works of
May rival these; these all bespeak a
Peculiar, and exclusively her own.
Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;'Tis free to all, — 'tis every day renewed,
Who scorns it, starves deservedly at home.
He does not scorn it, who imprisoned
In some unwholesome dungeon, and a
To sallow sickness, which the vapours
And 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 extinguished fires,
He walks, he leaps, he runs, — is winged with joy.
And riots in the sweets of every breeze.
He does not scorn it, who has long endured A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.
Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed With acrid salts; his very heart
To gaze at nature in her green array.
Upon the ship's tall side he stands,
With visions prompted by intense desire;
Fair fields appear below, such as he left Far 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
For such immeasurable woe appears,
These Flora banishes, and gives the
Sweet smiles and bloom less transient than her own.
It is the constant revolution
And tasteless, of the same repeated joys,
That palls and satiates, and makes the languid lifeA pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down.
Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the
Recoils from its own choice, — at the full
Is famished, — 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 on the path they tread.
The paralytic who can hold her
But cannot play them, borrows a friend's
To deal and shuffle, to divide and
Her mingled suits and sequences, and
Spectatress both and spectacle, a
And silent cypher, while her proxy plays,
Others are dragged into the crowded
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 even
Themselves love life, and cling to it, as
That 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
Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame,
And their inveterate habits, all forbid.
Whom call we gay? That honour has been
The boast of mere pretenders to the name.
The innocent are gay; — the lark is
That dries his feathers saturate with
Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the
Of day-spring 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
Whose headaches nail them to a noon-day bed;
And save me too from theirs whose haggard
Flash desperation, and betray their
For property stripped 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
Of desultory man, studious of change,
And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
Prospects however lovely may be
Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight,
Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides
Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.
Then snug enclosures in the sheltered vale,
Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,
Delight us, happy to renounce a while,
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
Above the reach of man: his hoary
Conspicuous many a league, the
Bound homeward, and in hope already there,
Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waistA girdle of half-withered shrubs he shows,
And at his feet the baffled billows die.
The common overgrown with fern, and
With prickly goss, that shapeless and
And dangerous to the touch, has yet its
And decks itself with ornaments of gold,
Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the
Smells fresh, and rich in odoriferous
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the
With luxury of unexpected sweets.
There often wanders one, whom better
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin
With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound.
A serving-maid was she, and fell in
With one who left her, went to sea and died.
Her fancy followed him through foaming
To distant shores, and she would sit and
At 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 roams The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day.
And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tattered apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides a
More tattered 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 pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,
Though pinched with cold, asks never. — Kate is crazed.
I see a colemn of slow-rising smokeO'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild.
A vagabond and useless tribe there
Their miserable meal. A kettle
Between two poles upon a stick transverse,
Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog,
Or vermin, or at best, of cock
From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race!
They pick their fuel out of every hedge,
Which kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched The spark of life. The sportive wind blows
Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin,
The vellum of pedigree they claim.
Great skill have they in palmistry, and more To 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
In human mould, should brutalize by
His nature, and though capable of
By which the world might profit and himself,
Self-banished from society,
Such squalid sloth to honourable toil.
Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft They swathe the forehead, drag the limping
And vex their flesh with artificial sores,
Can change their whine into a mirthful
When safe occasion offers, and with
And music of the bladder and the bag Beguile their woes and make the woods resound.
Such health and gaiety of heart
The houseless rovers of the sylvan world;
And breathing wholesome air, and wandering much,
Need other physic none to heal the
Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.
Blest he, though undistinguished from the crowd By wealth or dignity, who dwells
Where man, by nature fierce, has laid
His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn,
The manners and the arts of civil life.
His wants, indeed, are many: but
Is obvious; placed within the easy
Of 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 springs spontaneous,) in
And barbarous climes, where violence
And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind.
By culture tamed, by liberty refreshed,
And all her fruits by radiant truth matured.
War and the chase engross the savage whole;
War followed for revenge, or to supplant The envied tenants of some happier spot,
The chase for sustenance, precarious trust!
His hard condition with severe
Binds all his faculties, forbids all
Of wisdom, proves a school in which he
Sly 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
Where it advances far into the deep,
Towards the Antarctic. Even the favoured
So lately found, although the constant
Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile,
Can boast but little virtue; and
Through plenty, lose in morals what they
In manners, victims of luxurious ease.
These therefore I can pity, placed
From all that science traces, art invents,
Or inspiration teaches; and
In boundless oceans never to be passed By navigators uninformed as they,
Or ploughed perhaps by British bark
But far beyond the rest, and with most cause,
Thee, gentle savage! whom no love
Or thine, but curiosity perhaps,
Or else vain-glory, prompted us to
Forth from thy native bowers, to show thee
With what superior skill we can
The gifts of Providence, and squander life.
The dream is past. And thou hast found
Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,
And homestall thatched with leaves. But hast thou
Their former charms?
And having seen our state,
Our palaces, our ladies, and our
Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports,
And heard our music; are thy simple friends,
Thy simple fair, and all thy plain
As dear to thee as once?
And have thy
Lost nothing by comparison with ours?
Rude as thou art (for we returned thee rude And ignorant except of outward show,)I cannot think thee yet so dull of
And spiritless, as never to
Sweets 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 washed our distant shore.
I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears,
A patriot's for his country. Thou art
At though 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
Thou climbst the mountain top, with eager
Exploring far and wide the watery
For sight of ship from England. Every
Seen in the dim horizon, turns thee
With conflict of contending hopes and fears,
But comes at last the dull and dusky eve,
And sends thee to thy cabin well-prepared To dream all night of what the day denied.
Alas! expect it not. We found no
To 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
By other hopes and richer fruits than yours.
But though true worth and virtue, in the
And genial soil of cultivated life,
Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there,
Yet not in cities oft, — in proud and
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
Begets its likeness.
Rank abundance
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,
By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph
Beyond th' achievement of successful flight.
I do confess them nurseries of the arts,
In which they flourish most; where, in the
Of warm encouragement, and in the
Of public note, they reach their perfect size.
Such London is, by taste and wealth
The 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
All her reflected features.
Bacon
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.
Nor does the chisel occupy alone The powers of sculpture, but the style as much;
Each province of her heart her equal care.
With nice incision of her guided
She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a
So sterile with what charms soe'er she will,
The richest scenery and the loveliest forms.
Where finds philosophy her eagle
With which she gazes at yon burning
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
Measures an atom, and now girds a world?
In London. Where has commerce such a mart,
So rich, so thronged, so drained, and so
As London, opulent, enlarged and
Increasing London?
Babylon of
Not more the glory of the earth, than sheA more accomplished world's chief glory now.
She has her praise.
Now mark a spot or
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
That she is slack in discipline, — more
To avenge than to prevent the breach of law.
That she is rigid in denouncing
On petty robbers, and indulges
And liberty, and oft-times honour too To peculators of the public gold.
That thieves at home must hang; but he that
Into his overgorged and bloated
The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes,
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good,
That through profane and infidel
Of holy writ, she has presumed to
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
And customs of her own, till Sabbath
Have 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,
That can alone make sweet the bitter
That life holds out to all, should most
And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves?
Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne
In chariots and sedans, know no
But that of idleness, and taste no
But such as art contrives, — possess ye
Your element; there only ye can shine,
There only minds like yours can do no harm.
Our groves were planted to console at
The pensive wand'rer in their shades.
At
The moonbeam, sliding softly in
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
Birds warbling all the music.
We can
The splendour of your lamps, they but
Our softer satellite.
Your songs
Our more harmonious notes: the thrush
Scared, 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, which enemies could ne'er have done,
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.150.
Begun in the summer of 1783 and completed by the autumn of 1784.
First published in 1785.
Asked by Cowper to suggest a subject for a poem, his friend Lady Austen submitted that he take a lighter subject than had been his custom, and facetiously set him the \
