The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart; grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, Brother, curse with me that baleful hour, Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays The pensive exile, bending with his woe, Vain, very vain, my weary search to find With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestick joy. The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, To men remote from power, but rarely known, Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. |