While struggling in the vale of tears below,
That never fail'd, nor shall it fail me now.

Angelic gratulations rend the skies:
Pride falls unpitied, never more to rise;

Humility is crown'd; and faith receives the prize.

In England's case to move the muse to tears?

From side to side of her delightful isle,
Is she not cloth'd with a perpetual smile?
Can nature add a charm, or art confer
A new-found luxury, not seen in her?
Where under heav'n is pleasure more pursued?
Or where does cold reflection less intrude?
Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn,
Pour'd out from plenty's overflowing horn;
Ambrosial gardens, in which art supplies
The fervour and the force of Indian skies;
Her peaceful shores, where busy commerce waits
To pour his golden tide through all her gates;
Whom fiery suns, that scorch the russet spice
Of eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice
Forbid in vain to push his daring way

To darker climes, or climes of brighter day;

Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll,
From the world's girdle to the frozen pole;

The chariots, bounding in her wheel-worn streets;
Her vaults below, where ev'ry vintage meets;
Her theatres, her revels, and her sports;

The scenes to which not youth alone resorts,
But age, in spite of weakness and of pain,
Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again;
All speak her happy: let the muse look round
From East to West, no sorrow can be found;
Or only what, in cottages confin'd,

Sighs unregarded to the passing wind.

Then wherefore weep for England? What appears
In England's case to move the muse to tears?
The prophet wept for Israel; wished his eyes
Were fountains fed with infinite supplies:
For Israel dealt in robbery and wrong;

There were the scorner's and the sland'rer's tongue;
Oaths, us'd as playthings or convenient tools,
As int'rest bias'd knaves, or fashion fools;
Adult'ry, neighing at his neighbour's door;
Oppression, labouring hard to grind the poor;
The partial balance, and deceitful weight;
The treach'rous smile, a mask for secret hate;
Hypocrisy, formality in pray'r,

And the dull service of the lip, were there.
Her women, insolent and self caress'd,
By vanity's unwearied finger dress'd,
'orgot the blush that virgin fears impart
To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art;

Were just such trifles, without worth or use,
As silly pride and idleness produce;

Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd and flounc'd around,
With feet too delicate to touch the ground,
They stretch'd the neck, and roll'd the wanton eye,
And sigh'd for ev'ry fool that flutter'd by.

He saw his people slaves to ev'ry lust,
Lewd, avaricious, arrogant, unjust;
He heard the wheels of an avenging God
Groan heavily along the distant road;
Saw Babylon set wide her two-leav'd brass
To let the military deluge pass,

Jerusalem a prey, her glory soil'd,

Her princes captive, and her treasures spoil'd;
Wept till all Israel heard his bitter cry;

Stamp'd with his foot; and smote upon his thigh:
But wept, and stamp'd, and smote his thigh, in vain....
Pleasure is deaf when told of future pain,
And sounds prophetic are too rough to suit
Ears long accustom'd to the pleasing lute....
They scorn'd his inspiration and his theme;
Pronounced him frantic, and his fears a dream;
With self-indulgence wing'd the fleeting hours,
Till the foe found them, and down fell the tow'rs.
Long time Assyria bound them in her chain;
Till penitence had purg'd the public stain,
And Cyrus, with relenting pity mov'd,
Return'd them happy to the land they lov'd:
There, proof against prosperity, awhile
They stood the test of her ensnaring smile;