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Classic and Contemporary Poetry


ON LUXURY by THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER

First Line: WHY, YE PROFUSE, HAS NATURE WORK'D IN VAIN
Last Line: TOO DEEPLY BOSOM'D IN THE BRANCHING WOOD.
Subject(s): GREAT BRITAIN; NATURE; PLEASURE; VANITY;

WHY, ye Profuse, has Nature work'd in vain,
To cloath with useful Woods @3Britannia@1's Plain?
Why the stout Oak, great King of Forests, made,
The knotted Ewe, and Beech of solemn Shade?
Why bends the Ash high-rustling o'er the Hills,
Why Poplars tall o'erhang the creeping Rills?
My Lord contemptuous of his Country's Groves,
As foreign Fashions foreign Trees too loves:
"Odious! upon a Walnut-plank to dine!
"No—the red-vein'd @3Mohoggony@1 be mine!
"Each Chest and Chair around my Room that stands,
"Was ship'd thro' dangerous Seas from distant Lands:
"Death! shou'd your @3British@1 Cloths my Limbs infold!
"How clumsily they sett when lac'd with Gold!
"For me rich @3Persia@1's Products cross the Deep,
"I owe my Dress to Silkworms, not to Sheep!
"And sent to @3China@1 the poor Sailor burns,
"To fetch me Cups, Bowls, Urinals and Urns."——

While thus the Great to modish Trifles stoop,
Each Science sorrows, all the Muses droop;
For those who most should patronize the Muse,
Neglect, or dread, or fetter, or abuse.
@3Pictura@1 hangs the Head, and sighing stands,
And drops the useless Pallet from her Hands;
@3Sculpture@1 that hop'd our lofty Halls to grace,
With @3Raleigh's, Bacon's, Milton's, Newton@1's Face,
(Names that from @3Britons@1 claim a loud Applause)
Weeps, breaks her rusty Chissel and withdraws.

The thoughtless Rich on rosy Beds repose.
With downy-finger'd Sloth their Eyes to close;
The Hand quite unemploy'd, and mute the Tongue,
Like idle Lutes in musty Cases hung:
Man grows fatigu'd with even Paths and plain,
Life sweetest tastes diversify'd with Pain;
The Table-Diamond shines not half so bright,
As brilliant Angles rich with varied Light.
Should Fortune frown, her Favourite's Visions cease,
His Soul starts conscious from the Bands of Ease;
Adversity to Action wakes his Worth,
And gives each hidden Talent, Life and Birth.

So when bleak Winter strips the mournful Trees,
The Traveller, Towns, Temples, @3Villa's@1 sees,
That in warm Spring invisible had stood,
Too deeply bosom'd in the branching Wood.



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