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Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
Good Heaven! what forrows gloom'd that parting day,' That call’d them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewel, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the western main ; And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, Return’d and wept, and still return’d to weep. The good old fire, the first prepard to go To new-found worlds, and wept for other's woe; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave, His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blest the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
0, luxury! thou curft by heaven's decree,
Even now the devastation is begun,
Unfit in these degen’rate times of shame, To catch the heart, or Atrike for honeft fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd, My shame in crouds, my folitary pride. Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'ft me poor at first, and keep'ft me fo; Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well, Farewel, and O! where'er thy voice be try'd, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of th’inclement clime; Aid slighted truth, with thy persuasive strain ; Teach erring man to fpurn the rage of gain ; Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Though very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour’d mole away ; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
G C FT.
BOW-STREET, COVENT-GAR DE N.
SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
Expressive of my duty ?
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
The gift, who flights the giver ?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give—and let 'em. If gems, or gold, import a joy,
I'll give them—when I get 'em.