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Wreck-threatning Statenland's o’erhanging shore,—
At length, thro' every tempest, as some branch
Then Paita's walls, in wasting flames involv'd, His vengeance felt; and fair occasion gave ! To shew humanity and continence, To Scipio's not inferior. Then was left No corner of the globe secure to Pride And Violence; altho' the far stretch'd coast Of Chili, and Peru, and Mexico, Arm'd in their civil cause. Tho fell Disease, Un'bating Labour, tedious l'ime conspir'd, And Heat inclement, to unnerve his force; Thro' that wide sea, which spreads o'er half the world, Deny'd all hospitable land or port,
Where, seasons voyaging, no road he found
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 To fold the world with harmony, and spread, Among the habitations of mankind, The various wealth of toil, and what her fleece, To clothe the naked, and her skilful looms, Peculiar give. Ye, too, rejoice, ye Swains! Increasing commerce shall reward your cares.
A day will come,-if not too deep we drink
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. Th' exulting Muse shall then, in vigour fresh, Her flight renew. Meanwhile, with weary wing, O’er ocean's wave returning, she explores 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.
OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.
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,
But me, not destin'd such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent, and care : Impelld, with steps unceasing, to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view ; That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own.
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 thua 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 ?