AREWELL to Europe, and at once
farewell
To all the follies which in Europe dwell,
To Eastern India now, a richer clime,
Richer alas in ev'ry thing but Rhime,
The Muses steer their course, and, fond of change,
At large, in other Worlds,, defire to range,
Refolv'd at least, since They the fool must play,
To do it in a diff'rent place, and way.
F. What whim is this, what errour of the brain,
What madness worse than in the dog-ftar's reign?
Why into foreign countries would You roam,
Are there not knaves and fools enough at home
If Satire be thy object, and thy lays
As yet have fhewn no talents fit for praise,
If Satire be thy object, fearch all round,
Nor to thy purpofe can one fpot be found,
Like England, where to rampant vigour grown
Vice choaks up ev'ry Virtue, where, felf-fown,
The feeds of Folly fhoot forth rank and bold,
And ev'ry feed brings forth a hundred fold.
P. No more of this-tho' Truth (the more our
The more our guilt) tho' truth perhaps may claim, And justify her part in this, yet here,
For the first time, e'en Truth offends my ear. Declaim from morn to night, from night to morn, Take up the theme anew, when day's new-born, I hear, and hate—be England what She will, With all her faults She is my Country still.
F. Thy Country, and what then? Is that mere word.
Against the voice of Reason to be heard?
Are prejudices, deep imbib'd in youth,
To counteract, and make thee hate the truth?
'Tis the fure fymptom of a narrow foul:
To draw its grand attachment from the whole,
And take up with a part; Men, not confin'd
Within fuch paltry limits, Men defign'd
'Their nature to exalt; where'er they go,
Whatever waves can roll, and winds can blow,
Where'er the bleffed Sun, plac'd in the sky
To watch this fubject world, can dart his eye,
Are ftill the fame, and, prejudice outgrown,
Confider ev'ry country as their own.
At one grand view They take in Nature's plan,
Not more at home in England, than Japan.
P. My good, grave Sir of Theory, whose wit, Grafping at fhadows, ne'er caught fubstance yet, 'Tis mighty eafy o'er a glass of wine
On vain refinements vainly to refine,
To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign,
To boast of Apathy when out of pain,
And in each sentence, worthy of the Schools,
Varnish'd with sophistry, to deal out rules
Moft fit for practice, but for one poor fault
That into practice they can ne'er be brought.
At home, and fitting in your elbow-chair
You praise Japan, tho' you were never there,
But was the Ship this moment under fail,
Would not your mind be chang'd, your Spirits fail,
Would you not cast one longing eye to shore,
And vow to deal in fuch wild fchemes no more?
Howe'er our pride may tempt us to conceal
Those paffions, which we cannot chuse but feel,
There's a strange Something, which without a brain
Fools feel, and with one wife men can't explain,
Planted in Man, to bind him to that earth,
In dearest ties, from whence he drew his birth.
If Honour calls, where'er She points the way, The Sons of Honour follow, and obey; If Need compels, where-ever we are sent, 'Tis want of courage not to be content; But, if we have the liberty of choice, And all depends on our own fingle voice, To deem of ev'ry Country as the fame Is rank rebellion 'gainst the lawful claim Of Nature, and fuch dull indifference May be PHILOSOPHY, but can't be SENSE.
F. Weak and unjust Distinction, strange defign, Most peevish, most perverse to undermine PHILOSOPHY, and throw her empire down By means of SENSE, from whom she holds her
Divine PHILOSOPHY, to Thee we owe
All that is worthy poffeffing here below;
Virtue and Wisdom confecrate thy reign,
Doubled each joy, and Pain no longer Pain.
When, like a Garden, where for want of toil,
And wholesome discipline, the rich, rank foil,
Teems with incumbrances, where all around
Herbs noxious in their nature make the Ground,
Like the good Mother of a thankless Son,
Curfe her own womb, by fruitfulness undone,
Like fuch a garden, when the human foul,
Uncultur'd, wild, impatient of controut,
Brings forth those paffions of luxuriant race,
Which spread, and stifle ev'ry herb of grace,
Whilft Virtue, check'd by the cold hand of fcorn,
Seems with'ring on the bed where she was born,
PHILOSOPHY fteps in, with steady hand
She brings her aid, fhe clears th' encumber'd land,
Too virtuous, to spare vice one stroke, too wise
One moment to attend to Pity's cries,
See with what Godlike, what relentless pow'r
She roots up ev'ry weed
PHILOSOPHY, a name of meek degree,
Embrac❜d, in token of humility,
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