Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the fhade.
Oh bliss precarious, and unfafe retreats,

Oh charming paradise of short liv'd sweets!

The self-fame gale that wafts the fragrance round,
Brings to the diftant ear a fullen found,

Again the mountain feels th' imprison'd foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below,

Ten thousand fwains the wafted fcene deplore,
That only future ages can reftore.

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 juftice your pretence ;
Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires

The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires.

Faft by the stream that bounds your just do

A nation dwells, not envious of your throne,

Studious of peace, their neighbours and their own.
Ill-fated race! how deeply muft they rue
Their only crime, vicinity to you!

The trumpet founds, your legions fwarm abroad,
Through the ripe harveft 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 wilderness ;
Famine and peftilence, her first-born son,
Attend to finish what the fword begun,

And ecchoing 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, fuceeeds not foon again,
And years of pining indigence must show
What fcourges are the gods that rule below,

Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees,
Such is his thirst of opulence and ease)

Plies all the finews of induftrious toil,

Gleans the refufe of the general spoil,

up

Rebuilds the towr's that fmok'd upon

the plain,

And the fun gilds the fhining fpires again.

Increafing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conqu'rors 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 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 induftry has won,
Where to fucceed is not to be undone,

A land

A land that diftant tyrants hate in vain,

In Britain's inle, 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! condemned to dwell

For ever in my native shell,

Ordain'd to move when others please,

Not for my own content or eafe,

But tofs'd and buffeted about,

Now in the water, and now out. 'Twere better to be born a stone Of ruder fhape and feeling none,

Than

Than with a tenderness like mine,

And fenfibilities fo fine; on How an 1

I envy that unfeeling shrub,

Fast-rooted against ev'ry rub.........

The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the freer with fcorn enough,
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,

And with afperity replied..

When cry the botanists, and ftare,
Did plants call'd fenfitive grow there?
No matter when a poet's mufe is

To make them grow juft where the 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 wish myself the rock I view,
Or fuch another dolt as you...
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd fpark,