a POEM; inscrib'd to Dr. NUGENT, Physician at Bath.
Excess usurps the Throne, and, lawless, reigns;
Riot and Luxury before her stand;
Disease and Death fly o'er th' infected Plains,
And Pride and Pestilence deface the Land!
From Clime to Clime the vagrant Virtue fled;
From Clime to Clime the baneful Pest pursu'd;
In Albion's Isle she rear'd her Angel Head;
In Albion's Isle the golden Age renew'd!
There, Reason rul'd, and Temp'rance triumph'd there,
There Health and Strength, a vig'rous Offspring, rise;
Health in the Soil was found, and in the Air,
And Strength, in nervous Limbs, and manly Size.
But thou, sweet Bath! her lov'd Abode she makes;
Or on thy circling Hills she waves her Wings;
Or laves her brooding Bosom in thy Lakes;
Or rises glowing in thy hallow'd Springs.
Thou, Source of Joy! whence cordial Bounty flows,
See, Life! See, Vigour! gushing from thy Veins;
Thou unexhausted Balm of human Woes!
To banish Sorrows, and to sooth all Pains.
Propitious Fountain of sincere Delight!
Beauties new kindl'd from thy Bosom rise;
As Stars, ascending from the Ocean bright,
With Rays relum'd adorn the Eastern Skies.
Ten thousand Pleasures on thy Summits sport;
And Gladness glides exulting in thy Gales;
The blooming Graces to thy Groves resort;
Or, wander joyful in thy winding Vales.
Take then the Lay a grateful Muse bestows;
Th' unlabour'd Lay, which to thy Fame she brings;
To thy inspiring Source her Song she owes;
Her Numbers warble from thy sacred Springs.
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