War causes Famine, Pestilence, and pining Indigence.
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 its 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 up the refuge of the gen'ral spoil,
Peace, Equity and Freedom profected in Britain's Isle.
Rebuilds the tow'rs that smok'd upon the plain,
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, laurel'd heroes, say
But Ætnas of the suff'ring world ye sway?
Sweet nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe,
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe;'
And stands a witness at truth's awful bar,
Το
prove you, there, destroyers, as ye are.
Oh, place me in some heav'n-protected isle
Where, peace, and equity, and-freedom smile ;
Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,
No crested warrior dips his plume in blood;
Where pow'r secures what industry has won ;
Where to succeed is not to be undone ;
A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign!
Mankind in general complain of their Situation in Life.
THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE PLANT.
AN Oyster cast upon the shore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well-worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded-
Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell
For ever in my native shell;
Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease;
But toss'd and buffeted about
Now in the water and now out.
"Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine!
Mankind in general complain of their Situation in Life.
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.
When, cry the botanists-and stare
Did plants call'd sensitive grow there?
No matter when-a poet's muse is
To make them grow just where she chooses
You, shapeless nothing in a dish—--
You, that are but almost a fish
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you:
many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;
And, when I bend, retire, and shrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think!
Mankind in general complain of their Situation in Life.
Thus life is spent (oh, fie upon't!)
In being touch'd, and crying-Don't!
A poet, in his ev'ning walk,
O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.
And your fine sense, he said, and your's,
Whatever evil it endures,
Deserves not, if so soon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings, in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.
You, in your grotto-work enclos'd,
Complain of being thus expos'd;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driv'n by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ill beside.
And, as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,
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