Gave a spare portion to the famish’d land;
Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain
Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain;
But yet in other scenes more fair in view,
When Plenty smiles - alas! she smiles for few -
And those who taste not, yet behold her store,
Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore -
The wealth around them makes them doubly poor.
Or will you deem them amply paid in health,
Labour’s fair child, that languishes with wealth?