The Art of Preserving Health - A Poem in Four Books. John Armstrong

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      Nor should I wander doubtful of my way.

       Had I the lights of that sagacious mind

      55Which taught to check the pestilential fire,

       And quel the dreaded Python of the Nile.

       O Thou belov'd by all the graceful arts,

       Thou long the fav'rite of the healing powers,

       Indulge, O Mead! a well-design'd essay,

      ​

      60Howe'er imperfect: and permit that I

       My little knowledge with my country share,

       Till you the rich Asclepian stores unlock,

       And with new graces dignify the theme.

      YE who amid this feverish world would wear

      65A body free of pain, of cares a mind;

       Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air;

       Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke

       And volatile corruption, from the dead,

       The dying, sickning, and the living world

      70Exhal'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

      75Of nature; when from shape and texture she

       Relapses into fighting elements:

      ​

      It is not air, but floats a nauseous mass

       Of all obscene, corrupt, offensive things.

       Much moisture hurts; but here a sordid bath,

      80With oily rancor 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 slumbring deep remains, and ranker grows

      85With sickly rest: and (tho' the lungs abhor

       To drink the dun fuliginous abyss)

       Did not the acid vigour of the mine,

       Roll'd from so many thundring chimneys, tame

       The putrid salts that overswarm the sky;

      90This caustick venom would perhaps corrode

       Those tender cells that draw the vital air,

       In vain with all their unctuous rills bedew'd;

       Or by the drunken venous tubes, that yawn

       In countless pores o'er all the pervious skin,

      ​

      95Imbib'd, would poison the balsamic blood,

       And rouse the heart to every fever's rage.

       While yet you breathe, away! the rural wilds

       Invite; the mountains call you, and the vales,

       The woods, the dreams, and each ambrosial breeze

      100That fans the ever undulating sky;

       A kindly sky! whose soft'ring power regales

       Man, beast, and all the vegetable reign.

       Find then some woodland scene where nature smiles

       Benign, where all her honest children thrive.

      105To 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 state,

       Proud of her bards, imperial Windsor sits;

      110There chuse thy seat, in some aspiring grove

       Fail by the slowly-winding Thames; or where

       Broader she laves fair Richmond's green retreats,

      ​

      (Richmond that sees an hundred villas rise

       Rural or gay.) O! from the summer's rage

      115O! wrap me in the friendly gloom that hides

       Umbrageous Ham! But if the busy town

       Attract thee still to toil for power or gold,

       Sweetly thou mayst thy vacant hours possess

       In Hampstead, courted by the weftern wind;

      120Or Greenwich, waving o'er the winding flood;

       Or lose the world amid the sylvan wilds

       Of Dulwich, yet by barbarous arts unspoil'd.

       Green rise the Kentish hills in chearful air;

       But on the marshy plains that Essex spreads

      125Build 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 presides; meagre fiend

       Begot by Eurus, when his brutal force

      130Compress'd the slothful Naiad of the fens.

      ​

      From such a mixture sprung this fitful pest,

       With feverish blasts subdues the sick'ning land:

       Cold tremors come, and mighty love of rest,

       Convulsive yawnings, lassitude, and pains

      135That sting the burden'd brows, СКАЧАТЬ