In softer soils, thy succour need; To thee the strangers trembling fly, Nor art thou less inclin'd to save, This makes thee rouze at prime of day, Thy doubtful nursery to survey: At noon to count thy flock with care, And in their joys and sorrows share, By each extreme unhappy made, Of too much sun, or too much shade; Be ready to attend their cry, And all their little wants supply; By day severest sentry keep, By night sit by them as they sleep; With endless pain and endless pleasure, The Tulip paints, perfumes the Rose : Thrice happy Foreigners! to find But, by thy goodness, Bobart, thrive: The rest, who will no culture know, The gardener's and his art's disgrace; In India's sultry forests bloom. Of these, at least, since nature more Their barks, or roots, their flowers, or leaves, Thy Hortus Siccus still receives : In tomes twice ten, that work immense! By thee compil'd at vast expence ; With utmost diligence amass'd, And shall as many ages last. And now, methinks, my Genius sees My Friend, amidst his plants and trees; Thou all that power dost truly know, Which they but dream of here below; Thy absolute despotic reign Inviolably dost maintain, Nor with ill-govern'd wrath afflight What's due to lawful majesty Which monarchs and their crowns perplex, Whom factions still, or favorites vex. But thou, on thy botanic throne, Sit'st fearless, uncontrol'd, alone: Thy realms in tumults ne'er involv'd, Ór, rising, are as soon dissolv'd: Free from the mischiefs and the strife Of a false friend, or fury wife: And if a rebel slave, or son, Audacious by indulgence grown, Presumes above his mates to rise, And their dull loyalty despise : Thou, awful Sultan! with a look, Canst all his arrogance rebuke; And, darting one imperial frown, Hurl the bold traitor headlong down : His brethren, trembling at his fate, Thy dread commands with reverence wait! Thy wondrous power and justice own, And learn t' assert a tottering throne. Thus, Kings that were in empire wise, Rebellions early should chastise; And give their clemency no time, Betwixt th' offender and the crime, With fatal eloquence to plead, Which does more rebels only breed. Bobart, to Kings thy rules commend, For thou to Monarchs art a friend. |