O What a Pity!

O what a pity!
when Britain, teeming like an o’er stor’d hive
Bade her young swarms look about and live,
The wise advice was relish’d by the brood
And each, in distant lands, pursu’d the public good.
Some to the rosy east convey’d their all
And glean’d the pearly shores of rich Bengal;
Others, the Indies of the West explor’d,
And found a world with rare productions stor’d:
While some, preferring scenes of peace and rest
These milder regions of the north possess’d,
Like swains of rural cares, they liv’d by toil,
And as they purchased, they improv’d the soil:
Clear’d the rude wilds, released the wood bound clay,
And shew’d the long hid earth the face of day;
Taught nature order, and the heedless flood,
To stand embay’d, where grew perhaps a wood.
Look here or there, each alter’d spot declares
It owes its change and fortune to their cares;
Where this fair city stands, the howling bear
And savage panther shared their nightly fare,
The hungry wolf, beset the trav’llers way,
And the sly fox purloined till break of day:
While the pale moon, in midnight state beheld
The circled Indians dancing round the field,
Who nightly tun’d their rude unletter’d lays
In many a barb’rous concert to her praise.
Look mildly down ye ministers of fate
Who fix the seal to deeds of future date;
Or ye whose tender office ’tis to mourn
With friendly sorrows o’er a nation’s urn;
Or ye, whose kindness watching o’er mankind
Prevent those mischiefs more man design’d:
Ye, one, or all, whatever be your name
Look kindly down, and check the barb’rous flame.
Teach British hearts the power of nature’s law,
And kings to know a murder from a war.
Shall these fair plains just rescu’d from woods
And fertile meadows from the lawless floods,
Become so soon abandon’d and accurs’d
And change to scenes more wretched than at first.
Shall these fair piles, the work and pride of those
Whose painless heads, are sunk in dark repose;
Who, when they laid the first foundation stone
Cried, “Bless these labours when we’re dead and gone.”
Shall these to ruin fall, consume and burn,
And hide with their ashes their erector’s urn?
Shall groan with groan in dismal concert flow
And Rachel’s doleful voice add woe to woe?
Shall street with street unite in gorey streams
And house with house communicate in flames?
Shall genuine love in British hearts expire
And nature cease to act ’tween son and sire?
While hell, exulting in the mischief, cries,
There drops a Briton, there a Buckskin dies.
Forbid it heav’n, nor let the hasty hand
Of barb’rous pow’r depopulate the land;
Lest hoary swains in ages yet unborn
Beneath some village shade, or lonely thorn,
To list’ning fons the horrid tale proclaim,
And brand a briton with a nero’s name.
Yet if the parent with a brutal joy,
Proceed in arms to murder and destroy,
May all that’s noble call our armies hence
To stand like men, or fall in brave defence,
Whilst I disown the place that gave me birth,
And call my native home A hell on earth.