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Good beaven ! 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 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, shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, Return’d and wept, and still return’d to weep. The good old sire, the first prepar'd 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, The fond companion of his hapless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for her father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And bless’d the cot where every pleasure rose ; And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief.
O Luxury! Thou curst by heav'n's decree,
Ev'n now the devastation is begun,
GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE.
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
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-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
PRINTED BY H. MOZLEY,