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13.

WRITTEN IN LONDON,

September, 1802.

O Friend! I know not which way I must lookFor comfort, being, as I am, opprest,To think that now our Life is only drestFor shew; mean handywork of craftsman, cook,Or groom! We must run glittering like a BrookIn the open sunshine, or we are unblest:The wealthiest man among us is the best:No grandeur now in nature or in bookDelights us. Rapine, avarice, expence,This is idolatry; and these we adore:Plain living and high thinking are no more:The homely beauty of the good old causeIs gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,And pure religion breathing household laws.
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