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And in their turn some petty tyrant's prey;
But, bound by social Freedom, firm they rise;
Such as, of late, an Oglethorpe has form’d,
And, crowding round, the charm'd Savannah sees.
“ Horrid with want and misery, no more
Our streets the tender passenger afflict.
Nor shivering age, nor sickness without friend,
Or home, or bed to bear his burning load;
Nor agonizing infant, that ne'er earn'd
Its guiltless pangs; I see! the stores, profuse,
Which British bounty has to these assign'd,
No more the sacrilegious riot swell
Of cannibal devourers ! right apply'd,
No starving wretch the land of freedom stains:
If poor, employment finds; if old, demands,
If sick, if maim'd, his miserable due ;
And will, if young, repay the fondest care.
Sweet sets the sun of stormy life; and sweet
The morning shines, in Mercy's dews array'd.
Lo! how they rise! these families of Heaven!
That"! chief, (but why-ye bigots?--why so late ?)
Where blooms and warbles glad a rising age:
What smiles of praise! and, while their song ascends,
The listening seraph lays his lute aside.
“ Hark! the gay Muses raise a pobler strain,
With active nature, warm impassion'd truth,
Engaging fable, lucid order, notes
Of various string, and heart-felt image fill'd.
Behold! I see the dread delightful school
Of temper'd passions, and of polish'd life,
Restor'd: behold! the well-dissembled scene
Calls from embellish'd eyes the lovely tear, .
Or lights up mirth in modest cheeks again.
Lo!'vanish'd monster land. Lo! driven away
Those that Apollo's sacred walks profane :
Their wild creation scatter'd, where a world
Unknown to nature, Chaos more confus'd,
O'er the brute scene its Ouran-Outangs pours" ;
Detested forms! that, on the mind imprest,
Corrupt, confound, and barbarize an age.
“ Behold! all thine again the Sister-Arts, Thy graces they, knit in harmonious dance. Nurs'd by the treasure from a nation drain'd Their works to purchase, they to nobler rouse Their untam'd genius, their unfetter'd thought; Of pompous tyrants, and of dreaming monks, The gandy tools, and prisoners, no more.
“Lo! numerous domes a Burlington confess : For kings and senates fit, the palace see! The temple breathing a religious awe; Even fram'd with elegance the plain retreat, The private dwelling. Certain in his aim, Taste, never idly working, saves expense.
“ See! silvan scenes, where Art alone pretends To dress her mistress, and disclose her charms : Such as a Pope in miniature has shown; A Bathurst o'er the widening forest -3 spreads ; And such as form a Richmond, Chiswick, Stowe.
“ August, around, what public works I see! Lo! stately streets, ló! squares that court the
breeze, In spite of those to whom pertains the care,
Ingulfing more than founded Roman ways,
Lo! ray'd from cities o'er the brighten'd land,
Connecting sea to sea, the solid road.
Lo! the proud arch (no vile exactor's stand)
With easy sweep bestrides the chasing flood.
See ! long canals, and deepen’d rivers join
Each part with each, and with the circling main
The whole enliven'd isle. Lo! ports expand,
Free as the winds and waves, their sheltering arms.
Lo! streaming comfort o'er the troubled deep,
On every pointed coast the light-house tow'rs;
And, by the broad imperious mole repell’d,
Hark! how the battled storm indignant roars."
As thick to view these varied wonders rose,
Shook all my soul with transport, unassurd,
The Vision broke; and, on my waking eye,
Rush'd the still ruins of dejected Rome.
Ye fabled muses, I your aid disclaim,
Your airy raptures, and your fancied flame:
True genuine woe my throbbing breast inspires,
Love prompts my lays, and filial duty fires;
The soul springs instant at the warm design,
And the heart dictates every flowing line.
See! where the kindest, best of mothers lies,
And death has shut her ever-weeping eyes ;
Haş lodg'd at last peace in her weary breast,
And lulld her many piercing cares to rest.
No more the orphan train around her stands,
While her full heart upbraids her needy hands!
No more the widow's lonely fate she feels,
The shock severe that modest want conceals,
The’oppressor's scourge, the scorn of wealthy pride,
And poverty's unnumber'd ills beside.
For see! attended by the angelic throng,
Through yonder worlds of light she glides along,
And claims the well-earn'd raptures of the sky:-
Yet fond concern recalls the mother's eye;
She seeks the helpless orphans left behind;
So hardly left! so bitterly resign’d!
Still, still ! is she my soul's divinest theme,
The waking vision, and the wailing dream:
Amid the ruddy sun's enlivening blaze
her dewy image plays,