XX.
May ſtedfast Zeal in Albion's Senate ſhine!
What glorious lawrells court the Patriots hand!
How baſe the hand that can ſuch Meed decline!
And was, kind Fate! to ſnatch theſe honors mine?
Yes! greene they ſpred, and fayre they bloomd for me;
Thy birth and duty bade the chiefe be thine;
Oh loſt, vain Trifler, loſt in each degree!
Thy Country never turnd her hopefull eyes on Thee.
XXI.
Nor Africk yields, nor Chilys earth contains
Such funds of wealth as crown the Plowmans toils,
And tinge with waving gold Britannias plains;
Even on her mountains cheerfull Plenty reigns,
And wildly grand her fleecy wardrobe ſpreads.
What noble Meed the honest Statesman gains,
Who through these publique nerves new vigour ſheds,
And bids the Uſeful Artes exalt their drooping heads:
