LONDON! the needy villain's gen❜ral home, Illustrious EDWARD! from the realms of day, The land of heroes and of saints survey; Nor hope the British lineaments to trace, The rustic grandeur, or the surly grace, But lost in thoughtless ease, and empty show, Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau; Sense, freedom, piety, refin'd away, Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey. All that at home no more can beg or steal, Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the court, On Britain's fond credulity they prey. No gainful trade their industry can 'scape, And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes. Ah! what avails it, that, from slav'ry far, I drew the breath of life in English air ; Was early taught a Briton's right to prize, Studious to please, and ready to submit, The supple Gaul was born a parasite: Still to his int❜rest true, where-e'er he goes, Wit, bravery, worth, his lavish tongue bestows; In every face a thousand graces shine, From every tongue flows harmon divine. These arts in vain our rugged natives try, Strain out with fault'ring diffidence a lye, And gain a kick for aukward flattery. Besides, with justice this discerning age Admires their wond'rous talents for the stage: Well may they venture on the mimic's art, Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part; Practis'd their master's notions to embrace, Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face ; With every wild absurdity comply, And view each object with another's eye; And as their patron hints the cold or heat, Slaves that with serious impudence beguile, For arts like these preferr'd, admir'd, caress'd, They first invade your table, then your breast; Explore your secrets with insiduous art, Watch the weak bar, and ransack all the heart; Then soon your ill-plac'd confidence repay, Commence your lords, and govern or betray. By numbers here from shame or censure free, This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse. Has heaven reserv'd, in pity to the poor, No pathless waste or undiscover'd shore ? No secret island in the boundless main ? This mournful truth is every where confess'd, SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS'D: But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold, Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold; Where won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd, The groom retails the favors of his lord. But hark! th' affrighted crowd's tumultuous cries Roll through the streets and thunder to the skies: Rais'd from some pleasing dream of wealth and pow'r, Some pompous palace or some blissful bow'r, Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight Sustain th' approaching fire's tremendous light; Swift from pursuing horrors take your way, And leave your little ALL to flames a prey; Then through the world a wretched vagrant roam, For where can starving merit find a home? In vain your mournful narrative disclose, While all neglect, and most insult your woes. Should heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth confound, And spread his flaming palace on the ground, And public mournings pacify the skies; The laureat tribe in servile verse relate, Could'st thou resign the park and play content, And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land, Despise the dainties of a venal lord. There every bush with nature's music rings, And bless thy evening walk and morning toil. Prepare for death, if here at night you roam, And sign your will before you sup from home. |