agonies of my English maid and the French valet,
became equally insupportable to themselves and me; who could only repeat
the same unheeded consolations, and protest our resolution of releasing
them from this theatre of distraction the moment our departure should
become practicable. Mean time the rain fell, and such a torrent came
tumbling down the sides of St. Juliano, as I am persuaded no female
courage could have calmly looked on. I therefore waited its abatement in
a darkened room, packed up our coach without waiting to copy over the
verses my admiration of the place had prompted, and drove forward to
Sienna, through Pisa again, where our friends told us of the damages
done by the tempest; and shewed us a pretty little church just out of
town, where the officiating priest at the altar was saved almost by
miracle, as the lightning melted one of the chalices completely, and
twisted the brazen-gilt crucifix quite round in a very astonishing
manner.

Here, however, is the proper place, if any, to introduce the poem of
seventy-three short lines, calling itself an Ode to Society written in a
state of perfect solitude, secluded from all mortal tread, as was our
habitation at the Bagni di Pisa.

ODE TO SOCIETY.

I.

SOCIETY! gregarious dame!
Who knows thy favour'd haunts to name?
Whether at Paris you prepare
The supper and the chat to share,
While fix'd in artificial row,
Laughter displays its teeth of snow:
Grimace with raillery rejoices,
And song of many mingled voices,
Till young coquetry's artful wile
Some foreign novice shall beguile,
Who home return'd, still prates of thee,
Light, flippant, French SOCIETY.

II.

Or whether, with your zone unbound,
You ramble gaudy Venice round,
Resolv'd the inviting sweets to prove,
Of friendship warm, and willing love;
Where softly roll th' obedient seas,
Sacred to luxury and ease,
In coffee-house or casino gay
Till the too quick return of day,
Th' enchanted votary who sighs
For sentiments without disguise,
Clear, unaffected, fond, and free,
In Venice finds SOCIETY.

III.

Or if to wiser Britain led,
Your vagrant feet desire to tread
With measur'd step and anxious care,
The precincts pure of Portman square;
While wit with elegance combin'd,
And polish'd manners there you'll find;
The taste correct--and fertile mind: