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Plies all the finews of industrious toil,
Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil,
Rebuilds the towers, that smoked upon the plain,
And the sun gilds the shining spires again.
Increasing commerce and reviving art
Renew the quarrel on the conquerors part;
And the sad leffon must be learned once more,
That wealth within is ruin at the door.
What are ye, monarchs, laurelled heroes, say,
But Ætnas of the suffering world ye sway?
Sweet nature, stripped of her enbroidered robe,
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe;
And stands a witness at truth's awful bar,
To prove you there, destroyers as ye are.
Oh place me in some heaven-prote&ted ille, Where peace, and equity, and freedom (mile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; Where power secures what industry has won; Where to succeed is not to be undone; A land that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's ille, beneath a George's reign!
THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.
Oh that those lips bad language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,
“Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!”
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Bleft be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one lo dear,
Oh welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who biddeft me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother loft so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she..
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss
Ah that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse, that bore thee flow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long figh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such?-It was.- Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
By disappointment every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at lait submission to my lot,
But, though I lefs deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dweltour name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the paftoral house our own.
Short lived poffeflion! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindoess there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightest know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy conftant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
Al this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be fo to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but fincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jeffamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou waft happier than myself the while,
Wouldft softly speak, and stroke my head and smile)
Could those few pleasant hours again appear,
Might one with bring them, would I wish them
I would not trust my heart—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.--
But nowhat here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,