Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/127

 Of rushing water; scarce she dares attempt The sea-like Plata; to whose dread expanse, Continuous depth, and wondrous length of course, Our floods are rills. With unabated force, In silent dignity they sweep along, And traverse realms unknown, and blooming wilds, And fruitful desarts, worlds of solitude, Where the sun smiles and seasons teem in vain, Unseen, and unenjoy'd. Forsaking these, O'er peopled plains they fair-diffusive flow, And many a nation feed, and circle safe, In their soft bosom, many a happy isle; The seat of blameless Pan, yet undisturb'd By christian crimes and Europe's cruel sons. Thus pouring on they proudly seek the deep, Whose vanquish'd tide, recoiling from the shock, Yields to this liquid weight of half the globe; And Ocean trembles for his green domain.

what avails this wondrous waste of wealth? This gay profusion of luxurious bliss? This pomp of Nature? What their balmy meads, Their powerful herbs, and Ceres void of pain? By vagrant birds dispers'd, and wafting winds, What their unplanted fruits? What the cool draughts, Th' ambrosial food, rich gums, and spicy health, Their forests yield? Their toiling insects what, Their silky pride, and vegetable robes? Ah! what avail their fatal treasure, hid Deep in the bowels of the pitying earth, Golconda's gems, and sad Potofi's mines; Where dwelt the gentlest children of the sun? What all that Afric's golden rivers roll, Her odorous woods, and fhining ivory stores? Ill-fated race! the softening arts of peace, Whate'er