Revolving seasons fruitless as they pass, See it an uninform'd and idle mass; Without a soil t' invite the tiller's care, Or blade that might redeem it from despair. Yet time, at length, (what will not time achieve ?) Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live. Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade. O bliss precarious and unsafe retreats, O charming Paradise of short-liv'd sweets! The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance round, Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe, Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws, Who write in blood the merits of your cause, Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence, Glory your aim, but justice your pretence; Behold in Etna's emblematick fires The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires. Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain, And tells you where yo 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 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 Bofore them, and behind a wilderness. Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son, Attend to finish what the sword begun · And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees, Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conqu'ror's part; And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say, But Etnas of the suffering world ye sway? Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, Deplores the wasted regions of her globe; And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, To prove you there destroyers as yo are. O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile · Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crested warriour dips his plume in blood ; Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won ; Where to succeed is not to be undone; A land, that distant tyranas hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign' ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL, WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE. GO-thou art all unfit to share The pleasures of this place The squirrel here his hoard provides And wood-peckers explore the sides The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn And here I wander eve and morn, Ah!-I could pity thee exil'd But thou canst taste no calm delight; I care not whether east or north, The angry muse thus sings thee forth, ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789. WRITTEN IN COMMEMORATION OF HIS MAJESTY'S HAPPY RECOVERY. co I RANSACK'D for a theme of song, Through tomes of fable and of dream But none I found, or found them shar'd To modern times, with Truth to guide Thus, as the bee, from bank to bow'r, Till, settling on the current year, I found the far-sought treasure near; A theme t' ennoble even mine, In memorable eighty-nine. The spring of eighty-nine shall be For then the clouds of eighty-eight That threaten'd England's trembling state One breath of Heaven, that cried-Restore! Then peace and joy again possess'd O Queen of Albion, queen of isles' Since all thy tears were chang'd to smiles, The eyes that never saw thee shine With joy not unallied to thine, Transports not chargeable with art Illume the land's remotest part, |