O What a Pity! Thomas Paine Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Cleary, Scott M., ed. Claeys, Gregory, gen. ed. Thomas Paine Collected Writings. Vol. II. Part 2: Poetry. Princeton Princeton UP 2026 pp. []-[]. 5 Volumes.

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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 .