to wake
  The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
  Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
  And savage men more murderous still than they;
  While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
  Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
  Far different these from every former scene,
  The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,
  The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
  That only sheltered thefts of harmless love.

  Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day,
  That called them from their native walks away;
  When the poor exiles, every pleasure passed,
  Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last,
  And took a long farewell, and wished in vain
  For seats like these beyond the western main,
  And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
  Returned and wept, and still returned to weep,
  The good old sire the first prepared to go
  To new-found worlds, and wept for others’ woe;
  But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
  He only wished 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 blest the cot where every pleasure rose,
  And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
  And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear,
  Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
  In all the silent manliness of grief.

  O luxury! thou cursed by Heaven’s decree,
  How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! 
  How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
  Diffuse their pleasure 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 sapped 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, ate there;
  And Piety with wishes placed 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;