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His seat, where solitary sports are seen,
As some fair female, unadorn’d and plain,
are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress : Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd, In Nature's simplest charms at first array’d; But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; While, scourged by famine, from the smiling land The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms—a garden and a grave.
Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, To scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits stray’d, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And e'en the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped-What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury and thin mankind;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know
shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest Do thy fair tribes, participate her pain ? [train, E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! Ah, no.
To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Far different there from all that charm'd before,
ing day, That call'd them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure pass'd, Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their
last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, Return’d and wept, and still return’d to weep. The good old sire the first prepared to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
O luxury! thou cursed by heaven's decree,
E'en now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; E'en now, methinks, as pondering 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 melancholy 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 placed above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;