Wreck-threat'ning Statenland's o'erhanging shore,- At length, thro' every tempest, as some branch And rear'd his lofty masts, and spread his sails. Then Paita's walls, in wasting flames involv'd, Arm'd in their civil cause. Tho' fell Disease, Thro' that wide sea, which spreads o'er half the world, Where, seasons voyaging, no road he found Where never was before the dreaded sound Rejoice, ye Nations! vindicate the sway Ordain'd for common happiness. Wide, o'er The globe terraqueous, let Britannia pour The fruits of plenty from her copious horn. What can avail to her, whose fertile earth By Ocean's briny waves are circumscrib'd, The armed host, and murd'ring sword of war, And conquest o'er her neighbours? She ne'er breaks Her solemn compacts in the lust of rule. Studious of arts and trade, she ne'er disturbs The holy peace of states. 'Tis her delight The various wealth of toil, and what her fleece, A day will come,-if not too deep we drink When thro' new channels sailing, we shall clothe That stretch from Anian's Straits to proud Japan; That portion, too, of land, a tract immense, Beneath th' Antarctic spread, shall then be known, And new plantations on its coast arise. Then rigid Winter's ice no more shall wound The only naked animal: but man With the soft fleece shall every-where be cloth❜d. Siluria's flow'ry vales, her old delight; The shepherds' haunts, where the first springs arise, Of Britain's happy trade,-now spreading wide, Wide as th' Atlantic and Pacific seas, Or as air's vital fluid o'er the globe. THE TRAVELLER: OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.` [GOLDSMITH.] 1765. REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair; Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail ; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good! But me, not destin'd such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent, and care: Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; And, plac'd on high above the storm's career, Look downward where an hundred realms appear; Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? |