LETTER VII.

A Panegyric on Bath , and a M ORAVIAN H YMN .

Of all the gay Places the World can afford,
By Gentle and Simple for Pastime ador'd,
Fine Balls, and fine Concerts, fine Buildings, and Springs,
Fine Walks, and fine Views, and a Thousand fine Things,
Not to mention the sweet Situation and Air,
What Place, my dear Mother, with Bath can compare?
Let Bristol for Commerce and Dirt be renown'd,
At Sal'sbury Pen-Knives and Scissars be ground;
The Towns of Devizes , of Bradford , and Frome ,

LETTER VI.

IN WHICH Mr . B — N — R — D gives a Description of the Bathing .

This Morning, dear Mother, as soon as 'twas light,
I was wak'd by a Noise that astonish'd me quite,
For in T ABITHA'S Chamber I heard such a Clatter,
I could not conceive what the Deuce was the Matter:
And, would you believe it? I went up and found her
In a Blanket, with two lusty Fellows around her,
Who both seem'd a going to carry her off in
A little black Box just the Size of a Coffin:

LETTER V.

Salutations of Bath , and an Adventure of Mr. B — N — R — D — 's in Consequence thereof .

No City, dear Mother, this City excels
For charming sweet Sounds both of Fiddles and Bells;
I thought, like a Fool, that they only would ring
For a Wedding, or Judge, or the Birth of a King;
But I found 'twas for Me that the good-natur'd People
Rung so hard that I thought they would pull down the Steeple,
So I took out my Purse, as I hate to be shabby,
And paid all the Men when they came from the Abbey;

LETTER IV.

A Consultation of Physicians .

Dear Mother, my Time has been wretchedly spent
With a Gripe or a Hickup wherever I went,
My Stomach all swell'd, till I thought it would burst,
Sure never poor Mortal with Wind was so curst!
If ever I ate a good Supper at Night,
I dream'd of the Devil, and wak'd in a Fright:
And so as I grew ev'ry Day worse and worse,
The Doctor advis'd me to send for a Nurse;
And the Nurse was so willing my Health to restore,

LETTER III.

CONTAINING The Birth of Fashion , a Specimen of a Modern Ode .

Sure there are Charms by Heav'n assign'd
To modish Life alone,
A Grace, an Air, a Taste refin'd,
To vulgar Souls unknown.

Nature, my Friend, profuse in vain
May ev'ry Gift impart,
If unimprov'd, they ne'er can gain
An Empire o'er the Heart.

Dress be our Care, in this gay Scene

LETTER II.

Mr. B — N — R — D's Reflections on his Arrival at Bath. — The Case of Himself and Co. — The Acquaintance He commences , &c. &c.

We all are a wonderful Distance from Home!
Two Hundred and Sixty long Miles are we come!
And sure you'll rejoice, my dear Mother, to hear
We are safely arriv'd at the Sign of the Bear.

'Tis a plaguy long Way! — but I ne'er can repine,
As my Stomach is weak, and my Spirits decline:
For the People say here, — be whatever your Case,

LETTER I.

CONTAINING , A View from the Parades at Bath , with some Account of the D RAMATIS P ERSONAE .

Sweet are yon Hills, that crown this fertile Vale!
Ye genial Springs! P IERIAN Waters, hail!

Hail, Woods and Lawns! Yes — oft I'll tread
Yon' Pine-clad Mountain's Side,
Oft trace the gay enamel'd Mead,
Where A VON rolls his Pride.

Sure, next to fair C ASTALIA 's Streams
And P INDUS ' flow'ry Path,

How early has young Chromius begun
The Race of Virtue , and how swiftly run,
And born the noble Prize away,
Whilst other youths yet at the Barriere stay?
None but Alcides ere set earlier forth then He ;
The God , his Fathers , Blood nought could restrain,
'Twas ripe at first , and did disdain
The slow advance of dull Humanitie ,
The big-limm'ed Babe in his huge Cradle lay,

Jug, jug! Fair fall the nightingal,
Whose tender breast
Chants out her merry madrigal,
With hawthorn pressed:
Te'u, te'u! thus sings she even by even,
And represents the melody in heaven:
Tis, tis ,
I am not as I wish.

Rape-defilid Philomel
In her sad mischance
Tells what she is forced to tell,
While the satyrs dance:
" Unhappy I," quoth she, " unhappy I,
That am betrayed by Tereus' treachery;

O Land beloved!
My Country, dear, my own!
May the young heart that moved
For the weak words atone;
The mighty lyre not mine, nor the full breath of song!
To happier sons shall these belong.
Yet doth the first and lonely voice
Of the dark dawn the heart rejoice,
While still the loud choir sleeps upon the bough;
And never greater love salutes thy brow
Than his, who seeks thee now.