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Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,
Good Heaven! what sorrowsgloom'd that parting day, That call'd them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
And took a long farewel, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And, shudd'ring still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return’d to weep.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
O, Luxury! thou curs’d by heaven's decree,
E’en now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
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 melancholy band,
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,
Unfit, in these degen’rate times of shame,
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,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
rage 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.