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النشر الإلكتروني

While struggling in the vale of tears below,
That never fail'd, nor shall it fail me now.

Angelic gratulations rend the skies,

Pride falls unpitied, never more to rise,

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Humility is crown'd, and Faith receives the prize.

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In England's case, to move the muse to tears?
From side to side of her delightful isle
Is she not cloth'd with a perpetual smile?
Can Nature add a charm, or Art confer.
A new found luxury not seen in her?

Where under Heav'n is pleasure more pursu'd,
Or where does cold reflection less intrude?
Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn,
Pour'd out from Plenty's overflowing horn;
Ambrosial gardens, in which Art supplies

The fervour and the force of Indian skies;

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Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce waits,

To pour his golden tide through all her gates;

Whom fi'ry suns, that scorch the russet spice
Of eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice
Forbid in vain to push his daring way

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To darker climes, or climes of brighter day;
Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll,
From the World's girdle to the frozen pole;
The chariots bounding in her wheel-worn streets;
Her vaults below, where ev'ry vintage meets;
Her theatres, her revels, and her sports;
The scenes to which not youth alone resorts,
But age, in spite of weakness and of pain,
Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again;
All speak her happy: let the muse look round
From East to West, no sorrow can be found:
Or only what, in cottages confin'd,

Sighs unregarded to the passing wind.

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Then wherefore weep for England? What appears

In England's case, to move the muse to tears?

The prophet wept for Israel; wish'd his eyes

Were fountains fed with infinite supplies:

For Israel dwelt in robbery and wrong:

There were the scorner's and the sland'rer's tongue;

Oaths, us'd as playthings or convenient tools,

As int'rest biass'd knaves, or fashion fools;
Adult'ry, neighing at his neighbour's door;
Oppression, lab'ring hard to grind the poor;
The partial balance, and deceitful weight;

The treach'rous smile, a mask for secret hate;
Hypocrisy, formality in pray'r,

And the dull service of the lip were there.

Her women, insolent and self-caress'd,

By Vanity's unwearied finger dress'd,

Forgot the blush, that virgin fears impart

To modest cheeks, and borrow'd one from art;
Were just such trifles without worth or use,

As silly pride and idleness produce;

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Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd, and flounc'd around,

With feet too delicate to touch the ground,

They stretch'd the neck, and roll'd the wanton eye,

And sigh'd for ev'ry fool that flutter'd by.

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