Wrote in 1721

How swift the Weeks in various Changes run, And push the Years and coming; Ages on, Whilst I as swift my weekly Course maintain, And bring to light the joyful Day again: The painful Task with Pleasure I pursue, And print the State of Kingdoms to your View.

Shall I again those sad Transactions tell, How South Sea Projects rose, and how they fell: How half Britannia in Conjectures lost, Whilst they vast airy Treasures had engross'd, Wak'd with Confusion at the startling Thought, That all was but a golden Dream of Nought.

How still the Plague, with unabated Pow'r, Rolls swift Destruction on the Gallic Shore. How peopled Towns in baleful Horrors lie, And Cities now, as well as Men, shall die.

Or, shall I stretch far as the Baltic Sea, Where Russia's Monarch frozen Realms obey, Whose Winter Soldiers so victorious grow, That Suevia's ruin'd by her Neighb'ring Foe: But GEORGE alone, whom all the Nations dread, Makes the rough Czar (undaunted else) afraid; Our British Castles, in those rocky Seas, Force the contending Northern Pow'rs to Peace.

Shall I again our Homeward News reveal, What bileous Woes New-England's Subjects feel, Where Tyrant Death pale Terror shakes around, And lays one Half of Boston under Ground.

Or, shall I nearer yet the Scene display, And spread Caesaria's Wealth in open Day; What burthen'd Mines her fruitful Province boasts, To match Panaman and Peruvian Coasts?

Or Pennsylvania, bless'd with fertil Earth, Whose Hills of shining Metals groan for Birth? We thoughtless tread on Magazines of Ore, Yet court that Blessing from a distant Shore.

Or, Philadelphia's Pile with Pleasure trace, And paint the Beauties of this Rising Place, How regular the Plan! How bright the View! Her Neighbour's Wonder, and their Envy too?

Too great's the Task; unpractis'd in the Song, More humble Theams to my low Sphere belong; To ask a kind Reward for weary Pains, And praise the Donor equal to the Gains. May gen'rous Thoughts a white Idea frame, To give the Boon I wish, yet blush to name.