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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 !
The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad,

Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'd road, . At ev'ry step beneath their feet they tread

The life of multitudes, a nation's bread;
Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress
Before them, and behind a wilderness;
Famine, and pestilence her firda-burn fon,
Attend to finish what the sword begun,
And echoing praises such as fiends might earn,
And folly pays, resound at your return.
A calm succeeds—but plenty with her train
Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again,
And

years of pining indigence must show, What scourges are the gods that rule below.

Yet man, laborious man, by now degrees, (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease)

Plies all the sinews of industrious toi!,
Gleans

up

the refufe of the general spoil, Rebuilds the tow'rs that smok'd upon the plain, And the sun gilds the shining spires again.

Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conqu’rors part, And the sad leffon must be learn'd once more,

That wealth within is ruin at the door.

What are ye monarchs, laurel’d heroes, say,
But Ætnas of the fuff'ring world ye fway?
Sweet nature stripp'd of her embroider'd robe,
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe,
And stands a witness at truth's awsul bar,
To prove you there, destroyers as ye are.

Oh place me in some heav'n protected ille,
Where

peace and equity and freedom smile,
Where no vo cano pours his fiery food,
No crested warrior dips his plume in blood,
Where pow'r secures what industry has won,
Where to succeed is not to be undone,

!

A land

A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,
In Britain's inle, beneath a George's reign.

The POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE

PLANT:

AN Oyster cast upon the shore
Was heard, though never heard before ;
Complaining in a speech well-worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded :

Ah hapless wretch ! condemn'd to dwell
For ever in

my

native shell,
Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease,
But toss’d and buffeted about,
Now in the water, and now out.

"Twere better to be born a stone

Of ruder shape and feeling none,

Than

Than with a tenderness like mine,

And sensibilities fo fine;

I
envy

that unfeeling shrub,
Fast-rooted against ev'ry rub.
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with fcorn enough,
Was hurt, disgusted, mortify'd,
And with asperity replied.

When, cry the botanists, and stare,
Did plants call'd sensitive grow there?
No matter when a poet's muse is
To make them grow just where she chuses.

You shapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you.
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd spark,

With curious touch examines me,

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 touch'd, and crying don't.
A

poet in his evening walk,
O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.
And your fine sense, he said, and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,
Deserves not, if fo foon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.

You in your grotto-work inclos'd
Complain of being thus expos'd,
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,

Wherever

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