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Faft by the stream, 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 must they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you ! The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road; At every step beneath their feet they tread The life of multitudes, a nation's bread! Earth seems a garden in its lovelieft dress Before them, and behind a wilderness. Famine, and peftilence, her firft-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 muft show What scourges are the gods that rule below.

Yet man, laborious man by Now degrees, (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease) Plies all the finews of induftrious toil, Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil, Rebuilds the towers, that smoked upon the plain, And the sun gilds the shining spires again.

Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conquerors part; And the fad leffon muft be learned once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurelled heroes, say, But Etnas of the suffering world ye sway? Sweei nature, stripped of her embroidered 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 heaven-protected isle, Where peace, and equity, and freedom (mile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No çrefted warrior dips his plume in blood; Where power secures what industry has won; Where to succeed is not to be undone ; A land, that diftant 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.

Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee laft.
Those lips are thine thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same, that oft in childhood folaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how diftinct they say,
“ Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Bleft be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
Oh welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who biddeft me honour with an artless fong,
Affectionate, a mother loft 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,

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Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learned that thou waft dead,
Say, waft thou conscious of the tears I Med?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gaveft me, though unseen, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if fouls can weep in bliss
Ah that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse, that bore thee flow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long figh, 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 sound shall 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 still, was still deceived.
By disappointment every day beguiled,
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 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,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the paftoral house our own.
Short lived poffeffion! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightest know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum ;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes ;
All this ftill legible in memory's page,
And still to be fo to my latest age,

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