Where have I wander'd? do I dream? 175 Sure slaves of power are not my theme; But honest slaves, the sons of toil, Who cultivate the Planter's soil. He who to thwart GOD'S system{12} tries, Bids mountains sink, and vallies rise; 180 Slavery, subjection, what you will, Has ever been, and will be still: Trust me, that in this world of woe Mankind must different burthens know; Each bear his own, th' Apostle spoke; 185 And chiefly they who bear the yoke. From wise subordination's plan Springs the chief happiness of man; Yet from that source to numbers flow Varieties of pain and woe; 190 Look round this land of freedom, pray, And all its lower ranks survey; Bid the hard-working labourer speak, What are his scanty gains a week? All huddled in a smoaky shed, 195 How are his wife and children fed? Are not the poor in constant fear Of the relentless Overseer? LONDON! Metropolis of bliss! Ev'n there sad sights we cannot miss; 200 Beggars at every corner stand, With doleful look and trembling hand; Hear the shrill piteous cry of _sweep_, See wretches riddling an ash heap; The streets some for old iron scrape, 205 And scarce the crush of wheels escape; Some share with dogs the half-eat bones, From dunghills pick'd with weary groans.