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To swell some future tyrant's pride, Good Fleury pours the golden tide
On Gallia's smiling shores ; Once more her fields shall thirst in vain For wholesome streams of honest gain,
While rapine wastes her stores.
Yet glorious is the great design,
To prop a nation's frame.
Shall tell the patriot's name,
By the Same.
Lonsdale! thou ever honor'd name,
Say, why! my noble Friend!
Say, why my joys suspend !
Here spreads the lawn high-crown'd with wood,
In many a crystal maze.
The herds promiscuous graze.
Or if the stiller shade you love,
O'er innocence and ease ;
The lighter trifes please.
And should the shaft of treacherous spleen
Unheeded may it fly!
A mean prosaic lye.
Here with the pheasant and the hare,
Have statesmen pass’d a day :
Their slow-returning prey.
O! blind to all the joys of life,
Destroying or destroy'd.
On blessings unenjoy’d.
But come, my friend, the sun invites,
Distasted and aggrievid:
Too wise to be deceiv'd.
Or dost thou fear lest dire disease Again thy tortur'd frame may seize;
And hast thou therefore stay'd ? 01 rather haste, where thou shalt find A ready hand, a gentle mind,
To comfort and to aid.
And while by sore afflictions try'd,
What Stoic never bore ; 01 may I learn like thee to bear, And what shall be my destin'd share,
To suffer, not explore.