Farewell to these: but all our poor to know, Let's seek the winding Lane, the narrow Row, Suburban prospects, where the traveller stops To see the sloping tenement on props, With building-yards immix'd, and humble sheds and shops; Where the Cross-Keys and Plumber's-Arms invite Laborious men to taste their coarse delight; Where the low porches, stretching from the door, Gave some distinction in the days of yore, Yet now neglected, more offend the eye, By gloom and ruin, than the cottage by: Places like these the noblest town endures, The gayest palace has its sinks and sewers. Here is no pavement, no inviting shop, To give us shelter when compell'd to stop; But plashy puddles stand along the way, Fill'd by the rain of one tempestuous day; And these so closely to the buildings run, That you must ford them, for you cannot shun; Though here and there convenient bricks are laid - And door-side heaps afford tweir dubious aid, Lo! yonder shed; observe its garden-ground, With the low paling, form'd of wreck, around: There dwells a Fisher: if you view his boat, With bed and barrel--'tis his house afloat; Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks, abound, Tar, pitch, and oakum--'tis his boat aground: That space inclosed, but little he regards, Spread o'er with relics of masts, sails, and yards: Fish by the wall, on spit of elder, rest, Of all his food, the cheapest and the best, By his own labour caught, for his own hunger dress'd. Here our reformers come not; none object To paths polluted, or upbraid neglect; None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast, That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast: None heed the stagnant pools on either side, Where new-launch'd ships of infant-sailors ride: Rodneys in rags here British valour boast, And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast. They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail, They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale: True to her port, the frigate scuds away, And o'er that frowning ocean finds her bay: Her owner rigg'd her, and he knows her worth, And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep go forth; Dreadless he views his sea, by breezes curl'd, When inch-high billows vex the watery world. There, fed by food they love, to rankest size, Around the dwellings docks and wormwood rise; Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root, Here the dull nightshade hangs her deadly fruit: On hills of dust the henbane's faded green, And pencil'd flower of sickly scent is seen; At the wall's base the fiery nettle springs, With fruit globose and fierce with poison'd stings; Above (the growth of many a year) is spread The yellow level of the stone-crop's bed: In every chink delights the fern to grow, With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below; These, with our sea-weeds, rolling up and down, Form the contracted Flora of the town. Say, wilt thou more of scenes so sordid know? Then will I lead thee down the dusty Row; By the warm alley and the long close lane, - There mark the fractured door and paper'd pane,