And while he sinks, without one arm to save, Where then, ah, where shall poverty reside, If to the city sped—what waits him there? To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts?-Ah, turn thine eyes Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene, Far different there from all that charm'd before, The various terrors of that horrid shore ; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, savage men more murd'rous still than they ; Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, That call'd them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain To new-found worlds, and wept for other's woe; O, Luxury! thou curs'd by heaven's decree, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! |