Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/85

 While the loud billows dash the groaning deck. All may not Stroud's or Taunton's vestures wear, Nor what from Fleece Ratæan mimic flowers Of rich Damascus: many a texture bright Of that material in Prsetorium woven, Or in Norvicum, cheats the curious eye. If any wool peculiar to our Isle Is given by Nature, it is the comber's lock, The soft, the snow-white, and the long-grown flake. Hither be turn'd the public's wakeful eye This Golden Fleece to guard, with strictest watch, From the dark hand of pilfering Avarice, Who, like a spectre, haunts the midnight hour, When Nature wide around him lies supine And silent, in the tangles soft involv'd Of death-like sleep: he then the moment marks, While the pale moon illumes the trembling tide, Speedy to lift the canvass, bend the oar, And waft his thefts to the perfidious foe. Happy the patriot who can teach the means To check his frauds, and yet untroubled leave Trade's open channels. Would a gen'rous aid To honest toil in Cambria's hilly tracks, Or where the Lune or Coker wind their streams, Be found sufficient ? Far their airy fields, Far from infectious luxury, arise. O might their mazy dales and mountain sides With copious Fleeces of Ierne shine, And gulfy Caledonia, wisely bent On wealthy fisheries and flaxen webs, Then would the sister realms amid their seas, Like the three Graces in harmonious fold, By mutual aid enhance their various charms, And bless remotest climes !&emdsah;To this lov'd end Awake, Benevolence ! to this lov'd end