"Describe the Borough."--Though our idle tribe May love description, can we so describe, That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace, And all that gives distinction to a place? This cannot be; yet, moved by your request, A part I paint--let fancy form the rest. Cities and towns, the various haunts of men, Require the pencil; they defy the pen. Could he, who sang so well the Grecian fleet, So well have sung of alley, lane, or street? 10 Can measured lines these various buildings show, The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row? Can I the seats of wealth and want explore, And lengthen out my lays from door to door? Then, let thy fancy aid me.--I repair From this tall mansion of our last-year's mayor, Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach, And these half-buried buildings next the beach; Where hang at open doors the net and cork, While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work; 20 Till comes the hour, when, fishing through the tide, The weary husband throws his freight aside-- A living mass, which now demands the wife, Th' alternate labours of their humble life. Can scenes like these withdraw thee from thy wood, Thy upland forest or thy valley's flood? Seek, then, thy garden's shrubby bound, and look, As it steals by, upon the bordering brook: That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering, slow, Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow; 30 Where in the midst, upon her throne of green, Sits the large lily[34] as the water's queen; And makes the current, forced awhile to stay, Murmur and bubble as it shoots away; Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream, And our broad river will before thee seem. With ceaseless motion comes and goes the tide, Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide; Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep; 40 Here sampire-banks[35] and salt-wort[36] bound the flood; There stakes and sea-weeds, withering on the mud; And, higher up, a ridge of all things base, Which some strong tide has roll'd upon the place. Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat, Urged on by pains, half grounded, half afloat; While at her stern an angler takes his stand, And marks the fish he purposes to land; From that clear space, where, in the cheerful ray Of the warm sun, the scaly people play. 50 Far other craft our prouder river shows, Hoys, pinks and sloops; brigs, brigantines and snows: Nor angler we on our wide stream descry, But one poor dredger where his oysters lie: He, cold and wet, and driving with the tide, Beats his weak arms against his tarry side, Then drains the remnant of diluted gin, To aid the warmth that languishes within; Renewing oft his poor attempts to beat His tingling fingers into gathering heat.