And years of pining indigence must show Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conquʼror's part; And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurel'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. Oh, place me in some heav'n-protected isle, Where peace, and equity, and freedom smile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crested warrior 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 tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign! POET, OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE PLANT. 257 THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE PLANT. AN Oyster, cast upon the shore, Was heard, though never heard before, Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell Ordain'd to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease; I envy that unfeeling shrub, The plant he meant grew not far off, And with asperity replied. When, cry the botanists-and stareDid plants call'd sensitive grow there? No matter when-a poet's muse is To make them grow just where she chooses. 258 POET, OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE PLANT. You, shapeless nothing in a dish- And, when I bend, retire, and shrink, Deserves not, if so soon offended, Much to be pitied or commended. You, in your grotto-work enclos'd, And, as for you, my Lady Squeamish, If all the plants that can be found Should droop and wither where they grow, His censure reach'd them as he dealt it, ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK. THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM. OH that those lips had language! Life has pass'd The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 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 sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd 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 farewels are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting sound shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd; |