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Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own.

At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;

Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,

Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. E'en now the devastation is begun,

And half the business of destruction done;

E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land.

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a mélancholy band,

Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,

And kind connubial tenderness, are there ;
And piety with wishes plac'd above,

And steady loyalty, and faithful love.

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit, in these degen'rate time of shame,

To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd,

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so!
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be try'd,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side;
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow;
Still let thy voice prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted Truth with thy persuasive strain
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that states of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That Trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;
While self-dependant power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

;

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A

POETICAL EPISTLE,

TO LORD CLARE.

FIRST PRINTED IN 1765.

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