Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/102

 The lusty sicken, and the feeble die. But cheerful are the labours of the loom, By health and ease accompany'd : they bring Superior treasures speedier to the state Than those of deep Peruvian mines, where slaves (Wretched requital !) drink, with trembling hand, Pale Palsy's baneful cup. Our happy swains Behold arising in their fattening flocks A double wealth, more rich than Belgium's boast, Who tends the culture of the flaxen reed ; Or the Cathayans, whose ignobler care Nurses the silk-worm ; or of India's sons, Who plant the cotton grove by Ganges' stream. Nor do their toils and products furnish more Than gauds and dresses, of fantastic web, To the luxurious : but our kinder toils Give clothing to necessity ; keep warm Th' unhappy wanderer, on the mountain wild Benighted, while the tempest beats around. No, ye soft sons of Ganges, and of Ind, Ye feebly delicate ! life little needs Your feminine toys, nor asks your nerveless arm To cast the strong-slung shuttle or the spear. Can ye defend your country from the storm Of strong invasion ? Can ye want endure, In the besieged fort, with courage firm ? Can ye the weather-beaten vessel steer, Climb the tall mast, direct the stubborn helm Mid wild discordant waves with steady course ? Can ye lead out, to distant colonies, Th' o'erflowings of a people, or your wrong'd Brethren, by impious persecution driven, And arm their breasts with fortitude to try New regions, climes, tho' barren, yet beyond The baneful pow'r of tyrants ? These are deeds