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Are these thy serious thoughts—Ah, turn thine eyes
Dothine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!
To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charm'd before, The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
Good Heaven! what sorrows 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 farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. The good old sire, the first prepar'd to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' 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 her father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes And blest the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
O 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 pleasures only to destroy ! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly 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 unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
E'en now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass 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 in these degenerate times of shame,
G I F T.
IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.
SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
Expressive of my duty.
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
The gift who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give-and let'em. If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
I'll give them--when I get 'em.