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She teem'd and heav’d with an infernal birth,
day, In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. But oh! what muse, and in what pow'rs of
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, See it an uninform'd and idle mass;
Without a soil t'invite the tiller's care,
Or blade that might redeem it from despair.
Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?)
Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws,
Who write in blood the merits of your cause,
Who strike the blow, then plead your own de
fence, Glory your aim, but justice your pretence, Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires
The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires!
Fast by the stream, that bounds your just domain, And tells
where ye have a right to reign, A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, Studious of peace, their neighbours', and their own Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you! The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'd road; At ev'ry step beneath their feet they tread The life of multitudes, a nation's bread! Earth seems a garden in it's loveliest dress Before them, and behind a wilderness. Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son, Attend to finish what the sword begun; And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, And Folly pays, resound at your return. A calm succeeds—but Plenty, with her train Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again, And years of pining indigence must show What scourges are the gods that rule below.
Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease) Plies all the sinews of industrious toil, Gleans
the refuse of the gen’ral spoil, Rebuilds the tow’rs, that smok'd
upon And the sun gilds the shining spires again.
Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conqu’ror's part; And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more,
That wealth within is ruin at the door.
What are ye, monarchs, laurell’d heroes, say,
O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile;
Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,
Where to succeed is not to be undone;
A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,
RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE
OUT OF NORFOLK,
THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.
O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd