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Faft by the ftream, that bounds your juft domain, And tells you were 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 muft they rue
Their only crime, vicinity to you!
The trumpet founds, your legions fwarm abroad,
Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road;
At every ftep beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread!
Earth feems a garden in its lovelieft dress
Before them, and behind a wilderness.
Famine, and peftilence, her firft-born fon,
Attend to finish what the fword begun ;
And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn,
And folly pays, refound at your return.
A calm fucceeds-but plenty, with her train
Of heart-fch joys, fucceeds not foon again,
And years of pining indigence must show
What fcourges are the gods that rule below.
Yet man, laborious man by flow degrees,
(Such is his thirft of opulence and ease)
Plies all the finews of induftrious toil,
Gleans up the refufe of the general spoil,
Rebuilds the towers, that fioked upon the plain,
And the fun gilds the fhining spires again.
Increafing commerce and reviving art
Renew the quarrel on the conquerors part;
And the fad leffon muft be learned once more,
That wealth within is ruin at the door.
What are ye, monarchs, laurelled heroes, fay,
But Ætnas of the suffering world ye sway?
Sweet nature, ftripped of her embroidered robe,
Deplores the wafted regions of her globe;
And ftands a witnefs at truth's awful bar,
To prove you there, deftroyers as ye are.
Oh place me in fome heaven-protected ifle, Where peace, and equity, and freedom fmile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,
No crefted warrior dips his plume in blood;-
Where power fecures what induftry has won;
Where to fucceed is not to be undone;
A land, that distant tyrants hate in vain,
In Britain's ifle, beneath a George's reign!
THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.
On that those lips had language! Life has paffed With me but roughly fince I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own fweet smiles I fee, The fame that oft in child folaced
Voice only fails, else, how diftin&t they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!!!
The meek intelligence of thofe dear eyes
(Bleft be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here fhines on me ftill the fame.
Faithful remembrancer of one fo dear,
Oh welcome gueft, though unexpected here!
Who biddeft me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother loft fo long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy fhall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall fteep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art fhe.
My mother! when I learned that thou waft dead, Say, waft thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy fpirit o'er thy forrowing fon,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ?
Perhaps thou gaveft me, though unseen, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if fouls can weep in bliss-
Ah that maternal fmile! it anfwers-Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I faw the hearfe, that bore thee flow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long figh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it fuch ?-It was.-Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a found unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting found fhall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed ftill, was ftill deceived.
By difappointment every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a fad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant forrow spent,
I learned at laft fubmiffion to my lot,
But, though I lefs deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to fchool along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In fearlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the paftoral house our own.
Short lived poffeffion! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a ftorm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes lefs deeply traced.
Thy nightly vifits to my chamber made,
That thou mightest know me fafe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The bifcuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
All this, and more endearing ftill than all,
Thy conftant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by thofe cataracts and breaks,
That humour interpofed too often makes;
All this ftill legible in memory's page,
And still to be fo to my latest age,