Perpetual green, without the farmer's toil,
Through all the seasons clothes the favor'd soil,
Fair pools, in which the finny race abound,
By human art prepar'd, enrich the ground.
Not India's lands produce a richer store,
Pearl, ivory, gold and silver ore.
Yet, Britons, envy not these boasted climes,
Incessant war distracts, and endless crimes
Pollute the soil:—Pale Avarice triumphs there,
Hate, Envy, Rage, and heart-corroding Care,