He rejoices he leaves them, never to return till “rocks shall turn to rivers.” When he arrives in London,
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From the dull confines of the drooping west, To see the day-spring from the pregnant east, |
he, “ravished in spirit,” exclaims, on a view of the metropolis—
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O place! O people! manners form’d to please All nations, customs, kindreds, languages! |
But he fervently entreats not to be banished again:—
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For, rather than I’ll to the west return, I’ll beg of thee first, here to have mine urn. |
The Devonians were avenged; for the satirist of the English Arcadia was condemned again to reside by “its rockie side,” among “its rockie men.”
Such has been the usual chant of provincial poets; and, if the “silky-soft Favonian gales” of Devon, with its “Worthies,” could not escape the anger of such a poet as Herrick, what county may hope to be saved from the invective of querulous and dissatisfied poets?
In this calamity of authors I will show that a great poet felicitated himself that poetry was not the business of his life; and afterwards I will bring forward an evidence that the immoderate pursuit of poetry, with a very moderate 216 genius, creates a perpetual state of illusion; and pursues grey-headed folly even to the verge of the grave.