Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom’d that parting day
That call’d them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure pass’d,
Hung round their 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, 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 helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover’s for a 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 curs’d by Heaven’s decree,
How ill exchang’d are things like these for thee;
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own;
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe—
Till sapp’d their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
Even now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
Even 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 plac’d above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet poetry! thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade,
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame—
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride—
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.
Thou nurse of every virtue—fare thee well.
Farewell! and oh! where’er thy voice be tried,
On Tornea’s cliffs, or Pambamarca’s side,[6]
