Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men more murd'rous still than they ;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the graffy vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

Good Heaven! what forrows gloom'd that parting day,
That call'd them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last,
And took a long farewel, and wilh'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main ;
And sudd'ring still to face the distant deep,
Return’d and wept, and still return’d to weep.
The good old fire, the first prepard to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for other's woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave,
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bleft the cot where every pleasure rose;

And

a

[ocr errors]

And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And claspt them close, in forrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband ftrove to lend relief
In all the filent manliness of grief.

0, luxury! thou curst by heaven's decree,
How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleafures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to fickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own.
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ;
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unfound,
Down, down they fink, and spread a ruin round,

Even now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
Even now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where yon anchoring vefsel spreads the fail
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pafs from the shore, and darken all the strand,
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety with wishes plac'd above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;

Unfit

Unfit in these degen'rate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or Arike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd,
My shame in crouds, my folitary pride.
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found'ft me poor at first, and keep'it me fo;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well,
Farewel, and O! where'er thy voice be try'd,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth, with thy persuasive strain ;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ;
Teach him, that states of native strength posseft,
Though very poor, may ftill be very blest;
That trade's proud empire haftes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resift the billows and the sky.

THE

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

My heart, a vi&tim to thine eyes,

Should I at once deliver,
Şay, would the angry fair-one prize

The gift, who flights the giver ?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,

My rivals give-and let 'em. If gems, or gold, import a joy,

I'll give them-when I get 'em.

I'll give—but not the full-blown rose,

Or rose-bud more in fashion;
Such short-liv'd off'rings but disclose

A tranfitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,

Not less fincere, than civil:
I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,

I'll give thee-to the devil.

[merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small]
« ZurückWeiter »