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Ye who amid this feverish world would fear A body free of pain, of cares a mind, Fly the rank city, fhun its turbid air; Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke And volatile corruption, from the dead, The dying, fick’ning, and the living world Exhal'd, to fully heaven's transparent dome With dim mortality. It is not Air That from a thousand lungs reeks back to thine, Sated with exhalations rank and fell, The spoil of dunghills, and the putrid thaw Of nature, when from thape and texture lhe Relapses into fighting elements : It is not Air, but floats a naufeous mass Of all obscene, corrupt, offenfive things. Much moisture hurts; but here a fordid bath, With oily rancour fraught, relaxes more The solid frame than simple moisture can. Besides, immur'd in many a sullen bay That never felt the freshness of the breeze, This flumbering Deep remains, and ranker grows With fickly relt: and (tho' the lungs abhor To drink the dun fuliginous abyss) Did not the acid vigour of the mine, Rolld from so many thundering chimneys, tame The putrid seams that over-swarm the sky, This caustic venom would perhaps corrode Those tender cells that draw the vital air, In vain with all their un&tuous rills bedew'd ; Or by the drunken venous tubes, that yawn In countless pores o'er all the pervious skin, Imbib’d, would poison the balsamic blood, And rouse the heart to ev'ry fever's rage, While yet you breathe, away; the rural wilds Invite; the mountains call you, and the vales; The woods, the freams, and each ambrosial breeze That fans the ever-undulating sky; A kindly sky! whose fostering pow'r regales A 2


Man, beaff, and all the vegetable reign. Find them fome woodland scene where Nature Smiles Benign, where all her honeft children thrive. To us there wants not many a happy feat; Look round the smiling land, such numbers rise We hardly fix, bewilder'd in our choice. See where, enthron'd in adamantine ftate, Proud of her bards, imperial Windfor fits; There chuse thy seat, in fome aspiring grove Fast by the flowly-winding Thames; or where Broader she laves fair Richmond's green retreats (Richmond that fees an hundred villas rile Rural or gay). Oh! from the summer's rage, Oh! wrap me in the friendly gloom that hides Umbrageous Ham! But, if the busy Town Attract thee itill to toil for pow'r or gold, Sweetly thou may'st thy vacant hours poffefs In Hampstead, courted by the western wind; Or Greenwich, waving o'er the winding flood; Or lose the world amid the fylvan wilds Of Dulwich, yet by barbarous arts unspoil'd. Green rise the Kentish hills in cheerful air; But on the marshy plains that Effex spreads Build not, nor rest too long thy wandering feet For on a rustic throne of dewy turf, With baneful fogs her aching temples bound, Quartana there prefides: a meagre fiend, Begot by Eurus, when his brutal force Compress’d the slothful Naiad of the fens, From such a mixture sprung, this fitful pest With feverilh blasts fubdues the fickning land: Cold tremors come, with mighty love of rest, Convulsive yawnings, lassitude, and pains That sting the burthen'd brows, fatigue the loins, And rack the joints, and ev'ry torpid limb; Then parching heat succeeds, till copious sweats O’erflow: a short relief from former ills. Beneath repeated shocks the wretches pine:


The vigour finks; the habit melts away ;
The chearful, pure, and animated bloom
Dies from the face with fqualid atrophy
Devour'd, in fallow melancholy clad.
And oft the forceress in her fared wrath,
Resigns them to the furies of her train ;
The bloated Hydrops, and the yellow fiend
Tinged with her own accumulated gall.

In quest of fites, avoid the mournful plain
Where ofiers thrive, and trees that love the lake;
Where many lazy muddy rivers flow :
Nor, for the wealth that all the Indies roll,
Fix near the marshy margin of the main.
For from the humid foil, and wat’ry reign,
Eternal vapours rise ; the fpungy air
For ever weeps ; or, turgid with the weight
Of waters, pours a founding deluge down.
Skies such as these let ev'ry mortal shun
Who dreads the dropsy, pally, or the gout,
Tertian, corrosive {curvy, or moist catarrh;
Or any other injury that grows
From raw-spun fibres idle and unstrung,
Skin ill-perspiring, and the purple flood
In fanguid eddies loit'ring into phlegm.

Yet not alone from humid skies we pine ;
For air may be too dry. The subtle heaven,
That winnows into dust the blasted downs,
Bare and extended wide without a ftream,
Too fast imbibes th'attenuated lymph,
Which, by the furface, from the blood exhales,
The lungs grow rigid, and with toil essay
Their flexible vibrations ; or inflam’d,
Their tender ever-moving itructure thaws.
Spoil'd of its limpid vehicle, the blood
A mass of lees remains, a droflý tide
That slow as Lethe wanders thro' the veins ;
Unactive in the fervices of life,
Unfit to lead its pitchy current thro?
The fecret mazy channels of the brain.



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The melancholy Fiend that worst despair
Of phyfic) hence the rult-complexion'd man

1 47
Pursues, whose blood is dry, whose fibres gain
Too stretch'd a tone: and hence in climes adult
So sudden tumules seize the trembling nerves,
And burning fevers glow with double rage.

Fly, if you can. these violent extremes
Ofair; the wholesome. is nor moist nor dry.
But as the pow'r of chusing is denied
To half mankind, a further talk ensues ;
How best to mitigate these fell extremes,
How breathe unhurt the withering element,

Or hazy atmosphere : tho' custom moulds
To ev'ry clime the soft Promothean clay ; .'
And he who first the fogs of Essex breathi’d
(So kind is native air) may in the fens
Of Essex from inveterate ills revive :-
At pure Montpelier or Bermuda caught.
But, if the raw and oozy heaven offend,
Correct the foil, and dry the fources up
Of wat'ry exhalation ; wide and deep
Conduct your trenches thro' the quaking bog:
Solicitous, with all your winning arts,
Betray th' unwilling lake into the ftream ;
And weed the forest, and invoke the winds
To break the toils where strangled vapours lie;
Or thro' the thickets send the crackling flames.
Meantime, at home with cheerful fires dispel

The humid air : and let your table smoke
With folid roaft or bak'd ;. or what the herds
Of tamer breed supply ; or what the wilds
Yield to the toilsome pleasures of the chace.
Generous your wine, the boait of rip'ning years,
But frugal be your cups ; the languid. frame,
Vapid and funk from yeiterday's debauch,
Shrinks from the cold embrace of wat’ry heavens.
But neither these, nor all Apollo's arts,
Difaran the dangers of the dropping sky,


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Unless with exercife and manly toil


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ahç The fatt'ning clitne let all the fons of eale

the fons of eale satile Avoid ; if indolence would with to live, Go, yawn and loiter out the long flow year, In fairer skies. If droughty regions parch The skin and lungs, and bake the thick’ning blood, Deep in the waving forest chuse your fear, Where fuming trees refresh the thirfly air ; And wake the fountains from their secret beds, And into lakes dilate the rapid stream, Here spread your gardens wide ; and let the cool, The moist relaxing vegetable store Prevail in each repast: your food supplied By bleeding life, be gently walted down, By soft decoction and a mollowing heat, To liquid balm; or, if the folid mass You chuse, tormented in the boiling wave ; That through the thirfly channels of the blood A smooth diluted chyle may ever flow. The fragrant dairy from its cold recess Its nectar acid or benign will pour To drown your thirst; or let ihe mantling bowl Of keen Sherbet the fickle taste relieve. For with the viscous blood the simple stream Will hardly mingla ; and fermented cups Oft diffipate more moisture than they give. Yet when pale feafons rife, or winter rolls His horrors o'er the world, thou may.'It indulge In feasts more genial, and impatient broach The mellow całk. Then too the scourging air Provokes to keener toils than sultry thoughts Allow." But rarely we fuch skies blaspheme. Steep'd in continual rains, or with raw fogs Bedew'd, our seasons droop: incumbene fill A pond'rous heaven o'erwhelms the sinking soul: Lab'ring with forms, in heavy mountains rise Th' imbattled clouds, as if the Stygian shades


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