Faft by the ftream, that bounds your juft domain, And tells you were ye have a right to reign, A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, Studious of peace, their neighbours', and their own. Ill-fated race! how deeply muft they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you! The trumpet founds, your legions fwarm abroad, Yet man, laborious man by flow degrees, Increafing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conquerors part; And the fad leffon must be learned once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurelled heroes, fay, But Ætnas of the fuffering world ye fway? Sweet nature, ftripped of her embroidered robe, Deplores the wafted regions of her globe; And ftands a witness at truth's awful bar, To prove you there, deftroyers as ye are. Oh place me in fome heaven-protected ifle, Where peace, and equity, and freedom fimile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crefted warrior dips his plume in blood; Where power fecures what induftry has won; Where to fucceed is not to be undone; A land, that diftant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's ifle, beneath a George's reign! ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK. THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM. Ou that those lips had language! Life has paffed With me but roughly fince I heard thee laft. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I see, The fame, that oft in childhood folaced me Voice only fails, elfe, how diftin&t they say, (Bleft be the art that can immortalize, Oh welcome gueft, though unexpected here! I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: Shall fteep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art fhe. My mother! when I learned that thou waft dead, Say, waft thou conscious of the tears I fhed? Hovered thy fpirit o'er thy forrowing fon, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? Perhaps thou gaveft me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if fouls can weep in blifsAh that maternal fmile! it anfwers-Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearfe, that bore thee flow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long figh, and wept a laft adieu ! But was it fuch ?-It was.-Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a found unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting found fhall 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 ftill, was ftill deceived. By difappointment every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a fad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant forrow spent, I learned at laft fubmiffion to my lot, But, though I lefs deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, A thousand other themes lefs deeply traced. That thou mighteft know me safe and warmly laid; The bifcuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks beftowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: Thy conftant flow of love, that knew no fall, That humour interpofed too often makes; And still to be fo to my latest age, |