Survey

Suppose some Tray’llers, at an Inn set down,And Inns there are that grace this trading town,Where elegance and taste, at once, combineWith well stor’d larders—cellars stock'd with wine;Clean well air'd rooms—for those who pass the night,Each host, and hostess, civil and polite.

High mettl’d horses, every Inn can boast,For those, in haste, who wish to travel post;No chaises can be found more neat or clean,From Dover cliffs to Tweed, or Gretna Green.

Should Travellers incline to spend a day,And thro' this Seat of Arts should wish to stray,

To point each devious path shall be my pride,Well pleas'd (if they'll accept) I'll be their Guide.Or, if th' adjacent spots, that greet the eye,Which, from St. Philip 's Dome, with ease we 'spy,Will gratify their taste, I'll climb that height,And, from the Cupola, indulge their sight.

For strangers, freely, shall command my pow'r,To guide their footsteps, at a leisure hour;And, whilst surrounding objects they survey,Some knowledge of the diff'rent scenes convey.Tho' little of the kind I have to spare,Yet what I have, I'm sure, I'll freely share,And, any little child, by chance, you meet,May name each Public Building, and each Street.Or any stranger guide, and easy tellThe way to ev'ry Inn—or Grand Hotel.Of course I can, with ease, each Fact’ry show,And say—"There Handsworth lies-or there Soho."

Then, where yon Cross salutes the azure skies,See Philip's noble dome majestic rise;My station there I'll fix—as suiting best,Then, faithful guide you—North, East, South, or West.

South-west the Foundry, and the Brass-house stand,The Crescent, and the Wharfs, rich views command;

The Monument, near Lady-wood, you'll view,There Springfield's seen—the Cottage lies perdue.Near yonder terrace walk, so clean and neat,There Giles and Forrest oft prepare a treatOf healthy bev'rage; Porter, stout and strong,To renovate old age, or cheer the young.

Beneath your eye—north-west, you'll view St. Paul's,And where, in yonder vale, the water falls,Where locks impede the current's rapid force,A grand Canal there takes its devious course;In mazy windings round the town it bendsIts circling course; at south-south-east it ends,Tho' various branches from its trunk extends.

Now further glance your eye beyond the town,Where purple Heaths appear, or dusky brown,Close by yon Lake's pellucid stream beholdA Gothic Pile, which seems some cent'ries old,Vulcanic fancy there display'd her taste,And rear'd the fabrick on the barren waste;

The Forge materials for the work provides,Rude cinders clothe the front—compose the sides.Where bogs and brakes, and marshy fens were seen,We now behold a turf enamel'd green;It's hoary sage, withdrawn from toil and care,Both ease and solitude possesses there;The moss-clad turrets, ivy-clasp'd, o'er grown,Look as if Peace had mark'd the spot her own.

On Yonder gentle slope, which shrubs adorn,Where grew, of late, "rank weeds," gorse, ling, and thorn,Now pendant woods, and shady groves are seen,And nature there assumes a nobler mien.There verdant lawns, cool grots, and peaceful bow'rs,Luxuriant, now, are strew'd with sweetest flow'rs,Reflected by the lake, which spreads below,All Nature smiles around—there stands Soho!

Soho!—where Genius and the Arts preside,Europa's wonder and Britannia's pride;The matchless works have rais’d Old England's fame,And future ages will record thy name;Each rival Nation shall to thee resignThe Palm of Taste, and own—'tis justly thine;Whilst Commerce shall to thee an altar raise,And infant Genius learn to lisp thy praise:Whilst Art and Science reign, they'll still proclaimThine! ever blended, with a Boulton's name.

Behold, due north, a stately building stands,Whose friendly portal wide to all expands.The poor, if sick or lame, there find relief,To calm their anguish or assuage their grief.By voluntary gifts the pile was rear’d,By voluntary aid each patient's cheerd,And what must be acceptable to heav'n,Relief to strangers, there is freely giv'n;

The Sons of Galen anxious cares express,To ease their patients pain and sooth distress;Like good Samaritans, with pleasure toil,And freely pour their balsam, wine, and oil.

Near north by east, Barr Beacon greets your eye,More to the right, you 'll Aston's turrets spy.Britannia Brew'ry, nearer view, between,And o'er that Conic Tow'r lies Nechell's Green.

In that neat Square, St.Mary's you 'll behold,Whose vane is tipp'd and shines with burnish 'd gold .Beyond it, Aston Junction's plainly seen,Where boats seem sailing o'er the verdant green;

The busy Wharfingers, intent on gain ,Their vessels load — and ply the rattling crane.The boatmen sit at ease, their pipes they smoak,Or, with each other, crack a harmless joke;Whilst some the sluices ope—the waters flowIn torrents, rushing, to the locks below,Where, by the hedge-row masts, in numbers glide,Boats, carts and coaches, passing side by side.

Just o'er the Union Mill-exact north east,Behold a pile, which marks the owner's taste;Where Elegance and neatness both unite,And Duddeston in splendor greets your sight.On this side Washwood Heath see Bennet's-Hill,And Saltley village—close by yonder mill.

More to the East are seen, majestic trees,That court the freshness of each gentle breeze;Whose spreading branches, thick, umbrageous fall,Retir’d amidst their foliage-lies Vauxhall:A rural spot, where tradesmen oft repairFor relaxation, and to breathe fresh air:The beauties of the place attractive prove,To those who quiet and retirement love;There, freed from toils and labours of the day,Mechanics with their wives, or sweethearts, stray;

Or rosy children, sportive, trip along,To see rare Fire-works—or to hear a Song:For oft, in Summer, Music's secret pow'rs,Woos thousands to Vauxhall, to pass their hours.

Next Ashted view—the Chapel's plainly seen,The Barracks for the troops, lie just between.Bartholomew's you'll see about due east,Small Heath extends beyond, two miles at least.

Where curling eddies of black smoke ascends,Steam-Engines wond'rous force and pow'r portends,A Watt and Boulton's Fame they sure must raise,Far, far beyond, my Muse's feeble praise;Tho' on a theme so grand she'd wish to shew,Respect to Talents and to Genius due.

These Locks, and Boats, and Bridges, now you 'll view,Point out a fresh Canal, and Junction new;Thence boats to Warwick and to Stratford go,And thence—where silver Thames and Avon flow.

Now, more beneath your eye, see, to the right,St. Martin's beauteous spire attracts your sight.

Those Trees that wave below, by yonder Moat,The ancient Manor of our Lords denote;The Streamlet which beyond you now may see ,For we've no River else,—is call'd the Rea.

South-east lies Deritend and Bordesley rare,Both fam’d alike for good and 'special ware.Camp-Hill upon yon summit you'll espy,Beyond, Fair Hill and Moseley Wake they lie.More south stands Moseley Village-just below ,Where cedars, ash, and lofty poplars grow,Lies Moseley Hall, near which is Cannon Hill,And, just beyond that Church, the Pebble Mill.

See Norton spire, upon yon rising ground,And num'rous villas lie dispers’d around;Those hills beyond, are Bromsgrove Lickey nam'd,More for their barrenness, than beauty, fam'd.

Moor Green, and Selly Oak, lie south by west,In Nature's verdant liv'ry, gaily drest;Edgbaston's rural beauties intervene,And fairest landscapes fill the chequer'd scene.

Now, gently, to the right, your eyes incline,And mark where Barges float along yon line,Till disappearing, 'in the dark profound,'They sail some thousand yards beneath the ground;From thence emerging, swiftly on they glide,To reach the confines of the Severn's side.

What, tho' we boast no River's genial source,And, to old Ocean, rocks impede our course,Impervious mountains, yielding to our skill,We pierce their centers, and the vallies fill;Direct their springs, construct a Navigation,To waft our Commerce to each distant nation;And shew ,where'er our Patterns are unfurl'd,For works of Fancy, we outstrip the World.

The Coal and Timber Wharfs see just below,South-west stand Islington , and Harley Row;Beyond, the Ravenhurst and Harborne lie;South-west by west, you may the Lightwoods spy;

Three miles beyond exhibits to your view,Those rural scenes that Shenstone's pencil drew.

Around, in various parts, you'll RUINS trace,Mementos sad, of Riot and disgrace;Religion o'er these relics drops a tear,And Superstition shrinks, appal'd with fear;The Muse laments the scene, but draws a veil,And,in oblivion, sinks the hapless tale.

Near Lady Grove again you may descry,The tow'ring Monument ascending high;The Beaks and Shireland Hall, see to the right,And, west-ward, Smethwick Brass-works meet your sight;Where clouds of smoke in lofty columns rise,And sable exhalations dim the skies.

Our circuit now complete, around the Town,Ere from this eminence we venture down,Be pleas'd to look once more t’ward Winson Green,Where glittering spears, and Martial troops, are seen,Where splendid Banners, Britain's Arms display,And Volunteers are rang'd in fair array.

When dangers threat’ned Neptune's favourite Isle,Ere British bulwarks thunder'd off the Nile,A warlike band arose, a valiant host,To guard the fam'd Britannia's sea-girt coast;Interior Counties, fir’d with ardent zeal,Pour'd forth their sons, to guard the Common-weal;Associated Corps, join'd heart and hand,And Birmingham produc'd a chosen band,Of Horse and Foot,-to aid their Country's cause,

Protect their King, their Liberty, and Laws.These are the troops, in training, now you view,The Horsemen, Scarlet wear, the Foot, True Blue.

Now, soft descending, from this height, we'll traceThe different Manufact'ries of the place;But works so various Birmingham displays,To view them all, would take some length of days.Therefore each courteous reader, stranger, friend,Back to your Inn, be pleas'd your way to bend;T' amuse you there, I'll do the best I'm able,And give a brief Description—in a Fable.