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THOUGH true worth and virtue in the mind
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 every 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.

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 powers 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 scenery and the loveliest forms.
Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye,
With which she gazes at yon burning disc
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.

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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 ye can shine;
There only minds like yours can do no harm.
groves were planted to console at noon
The pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve
The moonbeam, 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
Scared, and th' offended nightingale is mute.
There is a public mischief in your mirth;
It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,
Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done,

Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fail.

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Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease,
And contemplation, heart-consoling joys,
And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abode
Of multitudes unknown; hail, rural life!
Address himself who will to the pursuit
Of honours, or emolument, or fame;
I shall not add myself to such a chase,
Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.
Some must be great. Great offices will have
Great talents. And God gives to every man
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste
That lifts him into life, and lets him fall
Just in the niche he was ordain'd to fill.
To the deliv'rer of an injur'd land
He gives a tongue t' enlarge upon, a heart
To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs;
To monarchs, dignity; to judges, sense;
To artists, ingenuity and skill;

To me, an unambitious mind, content
In the low vale of life, that early felt

A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long

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Found here that leisure, and that ease I wish'd.-CowPER.


Up, sleeper! dreamer! up; for now

There's gold upon the mountain's brow

There's light on forests, lakes, and meadows

The dew-drops shine on flow'ret bells;

The village clock of morning tells.
Up, men! out, cattle! for the dells

And dingles teem with shadows.

Up! out! o'er furrow and o'er field;
The claims of toil some moments yield
For morning's bliss, and time is fleeter
Than thought-so out! 'tis dawning yet.
Why twilight's lovely hour forget?
For sweet though be the workman's sweat,
The wanderer's sweat is sweeter.

Up! to the fields! through shine and stour;
What hath the dull and drowsy hour

So blest as this? the glad heart leaping
To hear morn's early song sublime,
See earth rejoicing in its prime;
The summer is the walking time—
The winter time for sleeping.

Oh, fool! to sleep such hours away,
While blushing Nature wakes to day,

On down through summer mornings snoring; 'Tis meet for thee, the winter long,

When snows blow fast and winds blow strong,
To waste the night amidst the throng,
Their vinous poisons pouring.

The very beast, that crops the flower,
Hath welcome for the dawning hour.

Aurora smiles! her beck'nings claim thee; Listen-look round-the chirp, the hum, Song, low, and bleat-there's nothing dumbAll love, all life. Come, slumbʼrer, come! The meanest thing shall shame thee.

We come we come our wand'rings take
Through dewy field, by misty lake,

And rugged path, and woods pervaded
By branches o'er, by flowers beneath,
Making earth od'rous with their breath;
Or through the shadeless gold-gorse heath,
Or 'neath the poplars shaded.

Were we of feather, or of fin,
How blest to dash the river in,

Thread the rock-stream as it advances;
Or, better, like the birds above,
Rise to the greenest of the grove,
And sing the matin song of love
Amidst the highest branches.

Oh, thus to revel, thus to range,
I'll yield the counter, bank, or 'change;

The bus'ness crowds, all peace destroying;

The toil, with snow that roofs our brains;
The seeds of care, which harvest pains;
The wealth, for more which strives and strains,
Still less and less enjoying.

Oh, happy, who the city's noise
Can quit for Nature's quiet joys,

Quit worldly sin and worldly sorrow;
No more 'midst prison-walls abide,
But, in God's temple vast and wide,
Pour praises every eventide,

Ask mercies every morrow.

No seraph's flaming sword hath driv'n,

That man from Eden or from heav'n,

From earth's sweet smiles and winning features;

For him, by toils, and troubles tost,

By wealth and wearying cares engross'd,
For him a paradise is lost-

But not for happy creatures.

Come-though a glance it may be-come,
Enjoy, improve, and hurry home,

For life's strong urgencies must bind us.
Yet mourn not; morn shall wake anew,
And we shall wake to bless it too-
Homewards! the herds shall shake the dew
We'll leave in peace behind us.-TOLLENS.


We expressed our intention to set out for the inspection of Jacob's Well; and a Samaritan lad, named Yákúb, offered himself as our guide. As we determined to effect, if possible, a thorough exploration of it, we took with us a supply of wax candles for its illumination, and all the ropes from our boxes that we might make of it a correct measurement. We attracted a good deal of attention as we passed through the town in our Indian travelling dresses. In the olive grove to the east of it, we found the Turkish women and the young members of their families, observing their holiday, squatted

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