Or if to wiser Britain led,
    Your vagrant feet desire to tread
    With measur’d step and anxious care,
    The precincts pure of Portman square;
    While wit with elegance combin’d,
    And polish’d manners there you’ll find;
    The taste correct—­and fertile mind: 
    Remember vigilance lurks near,
    And silence with unnotic’d sneer,
    Who watches but to tell again
    Your foibles with to-morrow’s pen;
    Till titt’ring malice smiles to see
    Your wonder—­grave SOCIETY.

    IV.

    Far from your busy crowded court,
    Tranquillity makes her report;
    Where ’mid cold Staffa’s columns rude,
    Resides majestic solitude;
    Or where in some sad Brachman’s cell,
    Meek innocence delights to dwell,
    Weeping with unexperienc’d eye,
    The death of a departed fly: 
    Or in Hetruria’s heights sublime,
    Where science self might fear to climb,
    But that she seeks a smile from thee,
    And wooes thy praise, SOCIETY.

    V.

    Thence let me view the plains below,
    From rough St. Julian’s rugged brow;
    Hear the loud torrents swift descending,
    Or mark the beauteous rainbow bending,
    Till Heaven regains its favourite hue,
    AEther divine! celestial blue! 
    Then bosom’d high in myrtle bower,
    View letter’d Pisa’s pendent tower;
    The sea’s wide scene, the port’s loud throng,
    Of rude and gentle, right and wrong;
    A motley groupe which yet agree
    To call themselves SOCIETY.

    VI.

    Oh! thou still sought by wealth and fame,
    Dispenser of applause and blame: 
    While flatt’ry ever at thy side,
    With slander can thy smiles divide;
    Far from thy haunts, oh! let me stray,
    But grant one friend to cheer my way,
    Whose converse bland, whose music’s art,
    May cheer my soul, and heal my heart;
    Let soft content our steps pursue,
    And bliss eternal bound our view: 
    Pow’r I’ll resign, and pomp, and glee,
    Thy best-lov’d sweets—­SOCIETY.

SIENNA.

20th October 1786.

We arrived here last night, having driven through the sweetest country in the world; and here are a few timber trees at last, such as I have not seen for a long time, the Tuscan spirit of mutilation being so great, that every thing till now has been pollarded that would have passed twenty feet in height:  this is done to support the vines, and not suffer their rambling produce to run out of the way, and escape the gripe of the gatherers.  I have eaten too many of these delicious grapes however, and it is now my turn to be sick—­No wonder, I know few who would resist a like temptation, especially as the inn afforded but a sorry dinner, whilst every hedge provided so noble a dessert. Paffera pur