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Ah no! To diftant climes, a dreary feene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting fteps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their wo.
Far different there from all that charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore ;
Thofe blazing funs that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely fhed intolerable day;

Thofe matted woods where birds forget to fing,
But filent bats in drowfy clusters cling;

Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark fcorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the ftranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful fnake:
Where crouching tygers wait their hapless prey,
And favage men more murd'rous ftill than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornada flies,
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.
Far different these from ev'ry former fcene,
The cooling brook, the graffy vefted green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only fhelter'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, ev'ry pleasure past,

Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their last,
And took a long farewel, and wish'd in vain
For feats like thefe beyond the western main;
And fhudd'ring ftill to face the deftin'd deep,
Return'd and wept, and ftill return'd to weep.
The good old fire, who first prepar'd to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for other's wo;
But for himself, in confcious 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 ev'ry pleasure rofe;
And kift her thoughtlefs babes with many a tear,
And clafpt them clofe, in forrow doubly dear;

Whilft her fond husband ftrove to lend relief
In all the filent manliness of grief.

O luxury! thou curft by heav'n's decree, How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee! How do thy potions with infidious joy, Diffuse their pleafures only to deftroy! Kingdoms by thee, to fickly greatness grown, Boat of a florid vigour not their own.

At ev'ry draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mals of rank unwieldy wo;

Till fapp'd their ftrength, and ev'ry part unfound, Down, down they fink and spread a ruin round,

Ev'n now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of deftruction done;
Ev'n now methinks, as pond'ring here I fland,
I fee the rural virtues leave the land.

Down where yon anch'ring vessel spreads the fail
That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pafs from the shore, and darken all the ftrand.
Contented toil, and hofpitable care,

And kind connubial tenderness are there;
And piety with wishes plac d above,
And teady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou fweet Poetry, thou lovelieft maid,
Still firft to fly where fenfual joys invade;
Unfit in these degen rate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or ftrike for honeft fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd,
My fhame in crowds, my folitary pride.

Thou fource of all my blifs, and all my wo,
That found'ft me poor at first, and keep'ft me so;
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurfe of ev'ry virtue fare thee well,
Farewel, and O! where'er thy voice be try'd,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's fide,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter warps the polar world in fnow,
Still let thy voice prevailing over time,
Redrefs the rigours of th' inclement clime:
Aid flighted truth, with thy perfuafive ftrain;
Teach erring man to fpurn the rage of gain,
Teach him, that ftates of native ftrength poffeft,
bleft;
Tho' very poor may ftill be very
That trade's proud empire haftes to fwift decay,
And ocean fweeps the labour'd mole away;
While felf-dependant pow'r can time defy,
As rocks refift the billows and the sky.

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON,

A

POETIC EPISTLE,

TO

LORD CLARE.

By DR. GOLD SMIT H.

THAN

HANKS, my lord, for your venifon, for finer or
fatter

Never rang'd in a foreft, or fmoak'd in a platter;
The haunch was a picture for painter's to stndy,
The fat was fo white, and the lean was fo ruddy,
Tho' my ftomach was sharp, I could scarce help re-
gretting,

To fpoil fuch a delicate picture by eating;

I had thoughts in my chamber to fet it in view,
To be fhewn to my friends as a piece of virtu;

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