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Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage,
Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage.
When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears,
Or Rowe's gay rake dependant virtue jeers,
With the same cast of features he is seen

To chide the libertine, and court the queen.
From the tame scene, which without passion flows,
With just desert his reputation rose;

Nor less he pleas'd, when, on some surly plan,
He was, at once, the actor and the man.

In Brute he shone unequall'd: all agree
Garrick's not half so great a brute as he.
When Cato's labour'd scenes are brought to view,
With equal praise the actor labour'd too;
For still you'll find, trace passions to their root,
Small diff'rence 'twixt the stoic and the brute.
In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan,
He could not, for a moment, sink the man.
In whate'er cast his character was laid,
Self still, like oil, upon the surface play'd.
Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in:
Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff,-still 'twas Quin.
Next follows Sheridan-a doubtful name,
As yet unsettled in the rank of fame.
This, fondly lavish in his praises grown,
Gives him all merit: that allows him none.
Between them both we'll steer the middle course,
Nor, loving praise, rob judgment of her force.

Just his conceptions, natural and great:

His feelings strong, his words enforc'd with weight.
Was speech-fam'd Quin himself to hear him speak,
Envy would drive the colour from his cheek:
But step-dame nature, niggard of her grace,
Deny'd the social pow'rs of voice and face.
Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye,
Passions, like chaos, in confusion lie:
In vain the wonders of his skill are try'd
To form distinctions nature hath deny'd.
His voice no touch of harmony admits,
Irregularly deep and shrill by fits:
The two extremes appear like man and wife,
Coupled together for the sake of strife.

His action's always strong, but sometimes such,
That candour must declare he acts too much.
Why must impatience fall three paces back?
Why paces three return to the attack?
Why is the right-leg too forbid to stir,
Unless in motion semicircular?

Why must the hero with the nailor vie,

And hurl the close clench'd fist at nose or eye?
In royal John, with Philip angry grown,
I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies down.
Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame,
To fright a king so harmless and so tame?
But, spite of all defects, his glories rise;
And art, by judgment form'd, with nature vies:
Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's soul,
Whilst in his own contending passions roll.
View the whole scene, with critic judgment scan,
And then deny him merit if you can.
Where he falls short, 'tis nature's fault alone;
Where he succeeds, the merit's all his own.

Last Garrick came.-Behind him throng a train Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain.

One finds out,-"He's of stature somewhat low,-
Your hero always should be tall, you know.
True nat'ral greatness all consists in height."
Produce your voucher, critic.-"Sergeant Kite."
Another can't forgive the paltry arts

By which he makes his way to shallow hearts;
Mere pieces of finesse, traps for applause-
"Avaunt, unnat'ral start, affected pause."

For me, by nature form'd to judge with phlegm,
I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn.
The best things carried to excess are wrong:
The start may be too frequent, pause too long;
But, only us'd in proper time and place,
Severest judgment must allow them grace.

If bunglers, form'd on imitation's plan, Just in the way that monkies mimic man, Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace, And pause and start with the same vacant face; We join the critic laugh, those tricks we scorn, Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn. But when, from nature's pure and genuine source, These strokes of acting flow with gen'rous force, When in the features all the soul's pourtray'd, And passions, such as Garrick's, are display'd, To me they seem from quickest feelings caught: Each start is nature; and each pause is thought. When reason yields to passion's wild alarms, And the whole state of man is up in arms; What but a critic could condemn the play'r, For pausing here, when cool sense pauses there? Whilst, working from the heart, the fire I trace, And mark it strongly flaming to the face; Whilst, in each sound, I hear the very man; I can't catch words, and pity those who can.

Let wits, like spiders, from the tortur'd brain
Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain;
The gods, a kindness I with thanks must pay,-
Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay;
Nor stung with envy, nor with spleen diseas'd,
A poor dull creature, still with nature pleas'd;
Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree,

And, pleas'd with nature, must be pleas'd with thee.
Now might I tell, how silence reign'd throughout,
And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout!
How ev'ry claimant, tortur'd with desire,
Was pale as ashes, or as red as fire:
But, loose to fame, the Muse more simply acts,
Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts.
The judges, as the several parties came,
With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each
claim,

And, in their sentence happily agreed,

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In name of both, great Shakspeare thus decreed.
"If manly sense; if nature link'd with art;
If thorough knowledge of the human heart;
If pow'rs of acting vast and unconfin'd;
If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd;
If strong expression, and strange pow'rs which lie
Within the magic circle of the eye;

If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know,

And which no face so well as his can show; Deserve the pref'rence ;-Garrick, take the chair; Nor quit it-till thou place an equal there."

THE PROPHECY OF FAMINE.

A SCOTS PASTORAL.

INSCRIBED TO JOHN WILKES, ESQUIRE.

When Cupid first instructs his darts to fly
From the sly corner of some cook-maid's eye,
The stripling raw, just enter'd in his teens,
Receives the wound, and wonders what it means;
His heart, like dripping, melts, and new desire
Within him stirs, each time she stirs the fire;
Trembling and blushing he the fair-one views,
And fain would speak, but can't-without a Muse.
So to the sacred mount he takes his way,
Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay,
His oaten reed to rural ditties frames,

To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills proclaims,
In simplest notes, and all unpolish'd strains,
The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of swains.
Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore,
In rustic weeds-a cook-maid now no more—
Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies,

[vale:

Green moss her couch; her canopy the skies.
From aromatic shrubs the roguish gale
Steals young perfumes, and wafts them through the
The youth, turn'd swain, and skill'd in rustic lays,
Fast by her side his am'rous descant plays.
Herds low, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens scream,
And the full chorus dies a-down the stream.
The streams, with music freighted, as they pass,
Present the fair Lardella with a glass;
And Zephyr, to complete the love-sick plan,
Waves his light wings, and serves her for a fan.

But, when maturer judgment takes the lead,
These childish toys on reason's altar bleed; [awe,
Form'd after some great man, whose name breeds
Whose ev'ry sentence fashion makes a law,
Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears,

And founds his merit on our servile fears;

Then we discard the workings of the heart,
And nature's banish'd by mechanic art;
Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown;
Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown.
Then ostentation marches to our aid,

And letter'd pride stalks forth in full parade;
Beneath their care behold the work refine,
Pointed each sentence, polish'd ev'ry line:
Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear
The robes of ancients with a modern air,
Nonsense with classic ornaments is grac'd,
And passes current with the stamp of taste.

Then the rude Theocrite is ransack'd o'er,
And courtly Maro call'd from Mincio's shore;
Sicilian Muses ou our mountains roam,
Easy and free as if they were at home:
Nymphs, naiads, nereids, dryads, satyrs, fauns,
Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns;

Flow'rs, which once flourish'd fair in Greece and

Rome,

More fair revive in England's meads to bloom;
Skies without cloud exotic suns adorn;
And roses blush, but blush without a thorn;
Landscapes unknown to dowdy nature rise,
And new creations strike our wond'ring eyes.
For bards like these, who neither sing nor say,
Grave without thought, and without feeling gay;
Whose numbers in one even tenor flow,
Attun'd to pleasure, and attun'd to woe;
Who, if plain common sense her visit pays,
And mars one couplet in their happy lays,
As at some ghost affrighted, start and stare,
And ask the meaning of her coming there;
For bards like these a wreath shall Mason bring,
Lin'd with the softest down of folly's wing;
In love's pagoda shall they ever doze,
And Gisbal kindly rock them to repose;
My lord to letters as to faith most true-
At once their patron and example too-
Shall quaintly fashion his love-labour'd dreams,
Sigh with sad winds, and weep with weeping

streams;

Curious in grief (for real grief, we know,

Is curious to dress up the tale of woe),
From the green umbrage of some Druid's seat,
Shall his own works in his own way repeat.

Me, whom no Muse of heav'nly birth inspires,
No judgment tempers when rash genius fires;
Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,
Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time;
Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads
By prattling streams o'er flow'r-empurpled meads;
Who often, but without success, have pray'd
For apt alliteration's artful aid;

Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill,
Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill;
Me, thus uncouth, thus ev'ry way unfit
For pacing poesy, and ambling wit,

Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongst the lowest of her favour'd race.

Thou, nature, art my goddess-to thy law

Myself I dedicate.-Hence, slavish awe,

Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rules,

Impos'd at first, and since observ'd by fools.

Hence those vile tricks which mar fair nature's hue,
And bring the sober matron forth to view
With all that artificial tawdry glare,
Which virtue scorns, and none but strumpets wear.
Sick of those pomps, those vanities, that waste
Of toil, which critics now mistake for taste,
Of false refinements sick, and labour'd ease,
Which art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please,
By nature's charms (inglorious truth!) subdu'd,
However plain her dress, and 'haviour rude,
To northern climes my happier course I steer,
Climes where the goddess reigns throughout the
Where, undisturb'd by art's rebellious plan, [year;
She rules the loyal laird, and faithful clan.

To that rare soil, where virtues clust'ring grow, What mighty blessings doth not England owe?

What waggon loads of courage, wealth and sense,
Doth each revolving day import from thence?
To us she gives, disinterested friend,
Faith without fraud, and Stuarts without end.
When we prosperity's rich trappings wear,
Come not her gen'rous sons and take a share?
And if, by some disastrous turn of fate,
Change should ensue, and ruin seize the state,
Shall we not find, safe in that hallow'd ground,
Such refuge as the Holy Martyr found?

Nor less our debt in science, though deny'd
By the weak slaves of prejudice and pride.
Thence came the Ramsays, names of worthy note,
Of whom one paints, as well as t' other wrote;
Thence Home, disbanded from the sons of pray'r
For loving plays, though no dull dean was there;
Thence issued forth at great Macpherson's call,
That old, new, epic pastoral Fingal;
Thence Malloch, friend alike of church and state,
Of Christ and liberty, by grateful fate
Rais'd to rewards, which in a pious reign
All darling infidels should seek in vain;
Thence simple bards, by simple prudence taught,
To this wise town by simple patrons brought,
In simple manner utter simple lays,
And take, with simple pensions, simple praise.
Waft me some Muse to Tweed's inspiring stream,
Where all the little loves and graces dream,
Where slowly winding the dull waters creep,
And seem themselves to own the power of sleep;
Where on the surface lead, like feathers, swims,
There let me bathe my yet unhallow'd limbs,
As once a Syrian bath'd in Jordan's flood,
Wash off my native stains, correct that blood
Which mutinies at call of English pride,
And deaf to prudence, rolls a patriot tide.

From solemn thought which overhangs the brow Of patriot care, when things are-God knows how; From nice trim points, where honour, slave to rule, In compliment to folly, plays the fool;

From those gay scenes where mirth exalts his pow'r,
And easy humour wings the laughing hour;
From those soft better moments, when desire
Beats high, and all the world of man's on fire,
When mutual ardours of the melting fair
More than repay us for whole years of care;
At friendship's summons will my Wilkes retreat,
And see, once seen before, that ancient seat,
That ancient seat, where majesty display'd
Her ensigns, long before the world was made!
Mean narrow maxims, which enslave mankind,
Ne'er from its bias warp thy settled mind.
Not dup'd by party, nor opinion's slave,
Those faculties which bounteous nature gave,
Thy honest spirit into practice brings,

Nor courts the smile, nor dreads the frown of kings.
Let rude licentious Englishmen comply
With tumult's voice, and curse they know not why;
Unwilling to condemn, thy soul disdains
To wear vile faction's arbitrary chains,
And strictly weighs, in apprehension clear,
Things as they are, and not as they appear.

With thee good-humour tempers lively wit;
Enthron'd with judgment, candour loves to sit;
And nature gave thee, open to distress,
A heart to pity, and a hand to bless.

Oft have I heard thee mourn the wretched lot Of the poor, mean, despis'd, insulted Scot, Who, might calm reason credit idle tales By rancour forg❜d where prejudice prevails, Or starves at home, or practises, through fear Of starving, arts which damn all conscience here. When scribblers, to the charge by int'rest led, The fierce North-Briton foaming at their head, Pour forth invectives, deaf to candour's call, And injur❜d by one alien, rail at all; On Northern Pisgah when they take their stand, To mark the weakness of that holy land, With needless truths their libels to adorn, And hang a nation up to public scorn; Thy gen'rous soul condemns the frantic rage, And hates the faithful but ill-natur'd page.

The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride; True is the charge, nor by themselves deny'd. Are they not then in strictest reason clear, Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here? If, by low supple arts successful grown, They sapp'd our vigour to increase their own, If, mean in want, and insolent in pow'r, They only fawn'd more surely to devour, Rous'd by such wrongs should reason take alarm, And e'en the Muse for public safety arm; But if they own ingenuous virtue's sway, And follow where true honour points the way, If they revere the hand by which they're fed, And bless the donors for their daily bread, Or by vast debts of higher import bound, Are always humble, always grateful found; If they, directed by Paul's holy pen, Become discreetly all things to all men, That all men may become all things to them; Envy may hate, but justice can't condemn. "Into our places, states, and beds they creep ;" They've sense to get, what we want sense to keep. Once, be the hour accurs'd, accurs'd the place, I ventur'd to blaspheme the chosen race. Into those traps, which men call'd patriots laid, By specious arts unwarily betray'd, Madly I leagu'd against that sacred earth, Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth. But shall I meanly error's path pursue, When heavenly truth presents her friendly clue? Once plung'd in ill, shall I go farther in? To make the oath was rash; to keep it, sin. Backward I tread the paths I trod before, And calm reflection hates what passion swore. Converted (blessed are the souls which know Those pleasures which from true conversion flow, Whether to reason, who now rules my breast, Or to pure faith, like Lyttleton and West), Past crimes to expiate, be my present aim To raise new trophies to the Scottish name, To make (what can the proudest Muse do more?) E'en faction's sons her brighter worth adore,

To make her glories, stamp'd with honest rhymes, In fullest tide roll down to latest times. [thine, "Presumptuous wretch! and shall a Muse like An English Muse, the meanest of the nine, Attempt a theme like this? Can her weak strain Expect indulgence from the mighty Thane ? Should he from toils of government retire, And for a moment fan the poet's fire, Should he, of sciences the moral friend, Each curious, each important search suspend, Leave unassisted Hill of herbs to tell, And all the wonders of a cockle-shell, Having the Lord's good grace before his eyes; Would not he Home step forth, and gain the prize? Or, if this wreath of honour might adorn The humble brows of one in England born, Presumptuous still thy daring must appear; Vain all thy tow'ring hopes, whilst I am here." Thus spake a form, by silken smile, and tone Dull and unvaried, for the laureat known, Folly's chief friend, decorum's eldest son, In ev'ry party found, and yet of none. This airy substance, this substantial shade, Abash'd I heard, and with respect obey'd.

From themes too lofty for a bard so mean, Discretion beckons to an humbler scene. The restless fever of ambition laid, Calm I retire, and seek the sylvan shade. Now be the Muse disrob'd of all her pride, Be all the glare of verse by truth supplied; And if plain nature pours a simple strain, Which Bute may praise, and Ossian not disdain, Ossian, sublimest, simplest bard of all, Whom English infidels Macpherson call, Then round my head shall honour's ensigns wave, And pensions mark me for a willing slave.

Two boys, whose birth beyond all question
springs

From great and glorious, though forgotten, kings,
Shepherds of Scottish lineage, born and bred
On the same bleak and barren mountain's head;
By niggard nature doom'd on the same rocks
To spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks;
Fresh as the morning, which, enrob'd in mist,
The mountain's top with usual dulness kiss'd,
Jockey and Sawney to their labours rose ;
Soon clad I ween, where nature needs no clothes;
Where, from their youth inur'd to winter skies,
Dress and her vain refinements they despise.
Jockey, whose manly high-bon'd cheeks to crown
With freckles spotted flam'd the golden down,
With mickle art could on the bagpipes play,
E'en from the rising to the setting day;
Sawney as long without remorse could bawl
Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal.
Oft at his strains, all natural though rude,
The Highland lass forgot her want of food,
And, whilst she scratch'd her lover into rest,
Sunk pleas'd, though hungry, on her Sawney's

breast.

Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen,

Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green.
The plague of locusts they secure defy,
For in three hours a grasshopper must die.
No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there,
But the cameleon, who can feast on air.
No birds, except as birds of passage, flew,
No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo.
No streams as amber smooth, as amber clear,
Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here.
Rebellion's spring, which through the country ras,
Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady clan.
No flow'rs embalm'd the air, but one white rose,
Which on the tenth of June by instinct blows,
By instinct blows at morn, and, when the shades
Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades.

One, and but one poor solitary cave,
Too sparing of her favours, nature gave;
That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!)
Shelter at once for man and beast supplied.
Their snares without entangling briers spread;
And thistles, arm'd against th' invader's head,
Stood in close ranks all entrance to oppose,
Thistles now held more precious than the rose.
All creatures which on nature's earliest plan,
Were form'd to lothe, and to be loth'd by man,
Which ow'd their birth to nastiness and spite,
Deadly to touch, and hateful to the sight,
Creatures, which when admitted in the ark,
Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark,
Found place within: marking her noisome road
With poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad;
There webs were spread of more than common size,
And half-starv'd spiders prey'd on half-starv'd flies;
In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl;
Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall;
The cave around with hissing serpents rung;
On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung;
And Famine, by her children always known,
As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne.
Here, for the sullen sky was overcast,
And summer shrunk beneath a wintry blast,
A native blast, which, arm'd with hail and rain,
Beat unrelenting on the naked swain,
The boys for shelter made; behind-the sheep,
Of which those shepherds every day take keep,
Sickly crept on, and with complainings rude,
On nature seem'd to call, and bleat for food.
Jockey.

Sith to this cave, by tempest, we're confin'd,
And within ken our flocks, under the wind,
Safe from the pelting of this perilous storm,
Are laid emong yon thistles, dry and warm,
What, Sawney, if by shepherd's art we try
To mock the rigour of this cruel sky?
What if we tune some merry roundelay?
Well dost thou sing, nor ill doth Jockey play.
Sawney.

Ah, Jockey, ill adviseth thou, I wis,
To think of songs at such a time as this.
Sooner shall herbage crown these barren rocks,
Sooner shall fleeces clothe these ragged flocks,
Sooner shall want seize shepherds of the south,

And we forget to live from hand to mouth,
Than Sawney, out of season, shall impart
The songs of gladness with an aching heart.
Jockey.

Still have I known thee for a silly swain:
Of things past help what boots it to complain?
Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's spite;
No sky is heavy, if the heart be light:
Patience is sorrow's salve; what can't be cur'd,
So Donald right arreads, must be endur'd.
Sawney.

Full silly swain, I wot, is Jockey now; How didst thou hear thy Maggy's falsehood? how, When with a foreign loon she stole away, Didst thou forswear thy pipe and shepherd's lay? Where was thy boasted wisdom then, when I Applied those proverbs, which you now apply? Jockey.

O she was bonny! All the Highlands round, Was there a rival to my Maggy found! More precious (though that precious is to all) Than the rare med'cine which we brimstone call, Or that choice plant, so grateful to the nose, Which in I know not what far country grows, Was Maggy unto me; dear do I rue, A lass so fair should ever prove untrue.

Sawney.

Whether with pipe or song to charm the ear, Through all the land did Jamie find a peer? Curs'd be that year by ev'ry honest Scot, And in the shepherd's calendar forgot, That fatal year, when Jamie, hapless swain, In evil hour forsook the peaceful plain. Jamie, when our young laird discreetly fled, Was seiz'd and hang'd till he was dead, dead, dead. Jockey.

Full sorely may we all lament that day;
For all were losers in the deadly fray.

Five brothers had I on the Scottish plains, [swains;
Well dost thou know were none more hopeful
Five brothers there I lost, in manhood's pride,
Two in the field, and three on gibbets died:
Ah! silly swains, to follow war's alarms!
Ah! what hath shepherd's life to do with arms!
Sawney.

Mention it not-There saw I strangers clad
In all the honours of our ravish'd plaid;
Saw the ferrara, too, our nation's pride,
Unwilling grace the awkward victor's side.
There fell our choicest youth, and from that day
Mote never Sawney tune the merry lay; [survive,
Bless'd those which fell! curs'd those which still
To mourn fifteen renew'd in forty-five.

Thus plain'd the boys,when from her throne of turf, With boils emboss'd, and overgrown with scurf, (Vile humours, which in life's corrupted well, Mix'd at the birth, not abstinence could quell,) Pale Famine rear'd the head: her eager eyes, Where hunger ev'n to madness seem'd to rise, Speaking aloud her throes and pangs of heart, Strain'd to get loose, and from their orbs to start;

Her hollow cheeks were each a deep-sunk cell,
Where wretchedness and horror lov'd to dwell;
With double rows of useless teeth supplied,
Her mouth, from ear to ear, extended wide,
Which, when for want of food her entrails pin'd,
She op'd, and, cursing, swallow'd nought but wind;
All shrivell'd was her skin, and here and there,
Making their way by force, her bones lay bare:
Such filthy sight to hide from human view,
O'er her foul limbs a tatter'd plaid she threw.
Cease, cried the goddess, cease, despairing swains,
And from a parent hear what Jove ordains!
Pent in this barren corner of the isle,
Where partial fortune never deign'd to smile;
Like nature's bastards, reaping for our share
What was rejected by the lawful heir;
Unknown amongst the nations of the earth,
Or only known to raise contempt and mirth;
Long free, because the race of Roman braves
Thought it not worth their while to make us slaves;
Then into bondage by that nation brought,
Whose ruin we for ages vainly sought;
Whom still with unslack'd hate we view, and still,
The pow'r of mischief lost, retain the will;
Consider'd as the refuse of mankind,

A mass till the last moment left behind,
Which frugal nature doubted, as it lay,
Whether to stamp with life, or throw away;
Which, form'd in haste, was planted in this nook,
But never enter'd in creation's book;
Branded as traitors, who for love of gold

Would sell their God, as once their king they sold;
Long have we borne this mighty weight of ill,
These vile injurious taunts, and bear them still.
But times of happier note are now at hand,
And the full promise of a better land:
There, like the sons of Israel, having trod,
For the fix'd term of years ordain'd by God,
A barren desart, we shall seize rich plains,
Where milk with honey flows, and plenty reigns.
With some few natives join'd, some pliant few,
Who worship int'rest, and our track pursue,
There shall we, though the wretched people grieve
Ravage at large, nor ask the owners leave.

For us, the earth shall bring forth her increase;
For us, the flocks shall wear a golden fleece;
Fat beeves shall yield us dainties not our own,
And the grape bleed a nectar yet unknown;
For our advantage shall their harvests grow,
And Scotsmen reap what they disdain'd to sow;
For us, the sun shall climb the eastern hill;
For us, the rain shall fall, the dew distil;
When to our wishes nature cannot rise,
Art shall be task'd to grant us fresh supplies.
His brawny arm shall drudging labour strain,
And for our pleasure suffer daily pain;
Trade shall for us exert her utmost pow'rs,
Her's all the toil, and all the profit our's;
For us, the oak shall from his native steep
Descend, and fearless travel through the deep;
The sail of commerce, for our use unfurl'd,
Shall waft the treasures of each distant world;

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