Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; Where to succeed is not to be undone; A land that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign! ON THE 90 RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM. O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me; "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood; A land that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign! ON THE 90 RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM. O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me; "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" |