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Th' unerring paths of rectitude pursue ;
Of rigid faith inexorably true :
Saw them reluctant yield their poplar groves,
And flow'ry vales in wild luxuriance gay; Forsake their fame, their friendship, and their loves,
When sunk beneath the European sway : While peace and joy, with all their smiling train, Recede before th' insatiate lust of gain,
Tho' there no lofty rocks aspire,
Whose caves with ductile silver glow;
That wont o'er golden sands to flow;
Yet tho' no glittering ore allure
To these deep glooms the Christian race,
Through pathless woods the headlong chace;
Ye sons of trade! whose fatal guile
Dishonours Britain's far-fam'd isle, Who pour th' intoxicating draught
With dire disease and madness fraught, With rage
and all the furies in her train, Ah! wherefore vainly talk of pow'rs above ? Yet blemish by your crimes the laws of truth and love.
Yet what are these ? your lesser guilt,
Your towns, by fraud insidious built, Your forts, that proudly low’ring round,
O’erlook those tracks of fruitful ground Which guileful arts have made your home? Ah! what are these to proud Iberia's crimes, Which blot the records of enlighten'd times ?
Each southern breeze seem'd warm with sighs,
From sad Potosi's injur'd race;
The annals of our kind disgrace ;
the rigid heart of unrelenting Spain.
Behold their pow'rs proud fabric rise,
Two mighty columns bear the lofty roof,
Avarice and Cruelty the names
Which each conspicuous pillar claims; Immoveable they seem, to heaven's dread thunder proof.
Where were ye then, ye sacred band ?
To spread salvation's joyful sound;
Where Truth and Mercy sit, with olive crown'd ? Alas! deep sunk in superstition's gloom, They bow beneath the tyranny of Rome.
But see! where Mercy's beams divine
And thro’ the oppressive Papal mist,
With saintly valour could persist To chace the demon Guilt even to his burning throne.
Where are your lyres, ye sons of song?
} And has no energetic tongue Charm'd Virtue's ear with good LAS CASA's praise ?
In that mild region of the sky,
Will none of all the tuneful throng
Responsive catch the heavenly song, Of
power to soothe even slavery's bitter woes ?
Yes! from thy banks dear native Clyde,
While shades of feather'd Inca's near,
In mournful fix'd attention hear, Nor think they wept and bled in vain, Since RICHARDSON records in lasting lays Their matchless woes, and blcst CHIAPA's praise !
SENT BY PROFESSOR MʻLEOD OF GLASGOW, TO SOME
LADIES WHO HAD INVITED HIM TO AN
“ Thas sung the uncouth nymph to th' oaks and rills."
HEN FINGAL dwelt in windy halls,
He spread the feast of shells.
Each tuneful bard and warlike chief
Made haste the feast to share :
Oft charm’d the vocal air.