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Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son,
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 slow degrees,
(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease)
Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,
Gleans up the refuse of the gen’ral 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’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, laureli'd heroes, say, But Ætnas of the suff'ring 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 ye are.
O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smiles Where do 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 uddone; A land, that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign!
On the 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
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solac'd 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
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannick claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here !
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost 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 learn’d that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorr’wing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a ķiss;
O that those lips had language! Life has passa
With me but roughly since I saw thee last.
Those lips are thine_thy own sweet smile I see.
The same that oft in childhood solac'd me;-
Driwn by Rich." Westall Eing. by P. Maverick & Durind.
Published by R&WA Bartow. N York.
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss
Ah that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell tolld on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nurs’ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, 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 word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.
By expectation ev'ry day beguild,
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 lea 'd at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no
Children not thine have trod my nurs’ry floor;
And where the gardner Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the publick way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap,
Tis now become a hist’ry little known,
That once we call'd the pas’ral house our own.
Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair,
That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,