The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured, And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies, It marches o'er the prostrate works of man, Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats! Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws, The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires! Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain, And tells you where 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 must they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you! R The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, 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 refuse of the general spoil, Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain, And the sun gilds the shining spires again. Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conqueror's part; And the sad lesson must be learned once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurelled heroes, say, But Ætnas of the suffering world ye sway? Sweet nature, stripped of her embroidered robe, Deplores the wasted regions of her globe, And stands a witness at truth's awful bar To prove you there destroyers, as ye are. Oh place me in some heaven-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 power 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. THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE Plant AN Oyster, cast upon the shore, Was heard, though never heard before, "Ah, hapless wretch! condemned to dwell For ever in my native shell, Ordained to move when others please, I envy that unfeeling shrub, The plant he meant grew not far off, ("When," cry the botanists, and stare, "Did plants called 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, 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 spent (oh fie upon't!) In being touched, and crying 'Don't!'" A poet, in his evening walk, O'erheard and checked this idle talk. “And your fine sense,” he said, “and yours, Whatever evil it endures, Deserves not, if so soon offended, Much to be pitied or commended. Disputes, though short, are far too long You, in your grotto-work enclosed, And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, Should droop and wither where they grow, His censure reached them as he dealt it, TO THE REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN UNWIN, I should but ill repay The kindness of a friend, Whose worth deserves as warm a lay As ever friendship penned, Thy name omitted in a page That would reclaim a vicious age. A union formed, as mine with thee, May be as fervent in degree, And may as rich in comfort prove, As that of true fraternal love. The bud inserted in the rind, Not rich, I render what I may; Lest this should prove the last. 'Tis where it should be-in a plan That holds in view the good of man. The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, |