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 founds, your legions fwarm 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 feems a garden in its loveliest dress
Before them, and behind a wilderness ;
Famine, and peftilence her fira-burn fon,
Attend to finish what the fword begun,
And echoing praises fuch as fiends might earn,
And folly pays, refound at your return.
A calm fucceeds-but plenty with her train
Of heart-felt joys, fucceeds not foon again,
And years of pining indigence must show,
What fcourges are the gods that rule below.

Yet man, laborious man, by flow degrees, (Such is his thirft of opulence and ease)

1

Plies

Plies all the finews of induftrious toi!,

the refufe of the general spoil,

Gleans
up
Rebuilds the tow'rs that fmok'd upon

the plain,

And the fun gilds the fhining fpires again.

Increafing commerce and reviving art

Renew the quarrel on the conqu'rors part,
And the fad leffon must be learn'd once more,
That wealth within is ruin at the door.

What are ye monarchs, laurel'd heroes, fay,
But Ætnas of the fuff'ring world ye sway?
Sweet nature stripp'd of her embroider'd robe,
Deplores the wafted regions of her globe,
And ftands a witness at truth's awful bar,
To prove you there, deftroyers as ye are.

Oh place me in some heav'n protected ifle,
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 fecures what industry has won,
Where to fucceed is not to be undone,

A land

A land that diftant tyrants hate in vain,

In Britain's ifle, beneath a George's reign.

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE

PLANT.

AN Oyster caft upon the shore

Was heard, though never heard before ;
Complaining in a speech well-worded,

And worthy thus to be recorded:

Ah hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell

For ever in my native fhell,

Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease,

But tofs'd and buffeted about,

Now in the water, and now out.

"Twere better to be born a stone

Of ruder fhape and feeling none,

Than

Than with a tenderness like mine,

And fenfibilities fo fine;

I envy that unfeeling shrub,

Faft-rooted against ev'ry rub.

The plant he meant grew not far off,

And felt the fneer with fcorn enough,
Was hurt, difgufted, mortify'd,

And with afperity replied.

When, cry the botanifts, and ftare, Did plants call'd fenfitive grow there? No matter when-a poet's muse is

To make them grow juft where fhe chufes.
You shapeless nothing in a dish,

You that are but almost a fish,
I fcorn your coarse infinuation,
And have most plentiful occafion
To with myself the rock I view,
Or fuch another dolt as you.
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd fpark,

With curious touch examines me,

If I can feel as well as he;

And when I bend, retire and fhrink,

Says, well 'tis more than one would think

Thus life is spent, oh fie upon't!

In being touch'd, and crying don't.

A poet in his evening walk,

O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.

And your fine fenfe, he faid, and yours,

Whatever evil it endures,

Deferves not, if fo foon offended,

Much to be pitied or commended.
Difputes though fhort, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings in their full amount,

Are all upon your own account.
You in your grotto-work inclos'd
Complain of being thus expos'd,
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,

Wherever