A nation dwells, not envious of your throne,

Studious of peace, their neighbours and their own. Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue

Their only crime, vicinity to you!

The trumpet founds, your legions fwarm abroad,
Through the ripe harveft lies their destin'd road,
At ev'ry step 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 first-born son,
Attend to finish what the fword begun,
And echoing praises fuch as fiends might earn,
And folly pays, refound at your return.
A calm fucceeds-but plenty with her train
Of heart-felt 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 fpoil,

Rebuilds the tow'rs that fiok'd upon the plain,

And the fun gilds the fhining fpires again.
Increasing commerce and reviving art

Renew the quarrel on the conqu'rors part,
And the fad leffon must be learn'd once more,
That wealth within is ruin at the door.

What are ye monarchs, laurel'd heroes, fay,
But Ætnas of the fuff'ring world ye fway?
Sweet nature ftripp'd of her embroider'd 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 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 fecures what induftry has won,
Where to fucceed is not to be undone,

A lard

A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,

In Britain's ifle, beneath a George's reign.

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE

PLANT.

AN Oyster caft upon the fhore

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 native fhell,

For ever in my

Ordain'd to move when others please,

Not for my own content or eafe,

But tofs'd and buffeted about,

Now in the water, and now out.

'Twere better to be born a stone

Of ruder fhape and feeling none,

Than

Than with a tendernefs like mine,

And fenfibilities fo fine;

I envy that unfeeling fhrub,

Faft-rooted against ev'ry rub.

The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the fneer with fcorn enough,
Was hurt, difgufted, mortify'd,

And with afperity replied.

When, cry the botanifts, and stare, Did plants call'd fenfitive grow there? No matter when-a poet's muse is

To make them grow just where the chufes.
You shapeless nothing in a difh,

You that are but almost a fish,
I fcorn your coarse infinuation,
And have moft plentiful occafion
To wifh myself the rock I view,
Or fuch another dolt as you.

For many a grave and learned clerk,

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

Thus life is fpent, oh fie upon't!

In being touch'd, and crying don't.
A poet in his evening walk,

O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.

And your fine sense, he said, and yours,

Whatever evil it endures,

Deferves not, if fo foon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes though fhort, 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 inclos'd
Complain of being thus expos'd,
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,

Wherever