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 loveliest dress
Before them, and behind a wildernefs.
Famine, and peftilence, her first-born son,
Attend to finish what the fword begun;
And, echoing praises such 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 thirst of opulence and ease)
Plies all the finews of industrious toil,
Gleans up the refufe of the gen'ral spoil,
Rebuilds the tow'rs that smok'd upon the plain,
And the fun gilds the thining fpires again.
Increafing commerce and reviving art

Renew the quarrel on the conqu'ror's 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 fway?
Sweet nature, ftripp'd of her embroider'd robe,
Deplores the wafted regions of her globe;
And ftands a witnefs 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 induftry has won;
Where to fucceed is not to be undone;

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 Oyfter, caft upon the fhore,
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 shell;

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 ftone,
Of ruder fhape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And fenfibilities fo fine!

I envy that unfeeling fhrub,

Faft-rooted against ev'ry rub.

The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the fneer with fcorn enough;

Was hurt, difgufted, mortified,
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 the choofes.
You, fhapeless nothing in a dish-

You, that are but almoft a fifh-
I fcorn your coarse infinuation,
And have moft plentiful occafion
To wish myfelf 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 fpent (oh, fie upon't!)
In being touch'd, and crying-Don't!
A poet, in his ev'ning walk,

O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.

And your fine fenfe, he faid, and your's,
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 enclos'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 Squeamish, 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 fhrinking fhow'd he felt it.