Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws,
Who write in blood the merits of your caufe,
Who ftrike the blow, then plead your own defence,
Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;
Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires

The mischiefs your ambitious pride infpires.
Faft by the ftream that bounds your just domain,
And tells you where 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 founds, your legions fwarm abroad,
Through the ripe harvest lies their deftin'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 lovelieft drefs
Before them, and behind a wilderness;
Famine, and peftilence her first-born 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 scourges are the gods that rule below.

Yet

Yet man, laborious man, by flow degrees,
(Such is his thirft of opulence and ease) ·
Plies all the finews of industrious toil,
Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil,
Rebuilds the tow'rs that fmok'd upon the plain,
And the fun gilds the shining spires again.
Increafing commerce and reviving art

Renew the quarrel on the conqu'ror's part,
And the fad lesson 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 fway?
Sweet nature ftripp'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 fome heav'n-protected ifle,
Where peace and equity and freedom fmile,
Where no Volcano pours his fiery flood,
No crefted warrior dips his plume in blood,
Where pow'r fecures what industry has won,
Where to fucceed is not to be undone,

A land that distant 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 shape and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And fenfibilities fo fine;

I envy that unfeeling shrub,

Fast rooted against ev'ry rub.

The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the fneer with fcorn enough,
Was hurt, disgusted, mortify'd,
And with afperity replied.

When, cry the botanifts, and ftare,
Did plants call'd fenfitive grow there?

No

THE POET, THE OYSTER, &c.

No matter when-a poet's muse is

To make them grow juft where she 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 spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;

And when I bend, retire and shrink,
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.

295

You

296

THE POET, THE OYSTER,

&c.

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 driv'n by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ill befide.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamifsh,
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,

Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all, not you.

The nobleft minds their virtue prove
By pity, fympathy, and love,
Thefe, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.

His cenfure reach'd them as he dealt it,
And each by shrinking fhew'd he felt it.

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