Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, That call'd them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure pass'd, Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain The good old sire the first prepared to go With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, O Luxury! thou curs'd by Heaven's decree, At every draught more large and large they grow, E'en now the devastation is begun, Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, |