But fairest flowers expand but to decay; The worm is in thy core, thy glories pass away; Arts, arms and wealth destroy the fruits they bring; Commerce, like beauty, knows no second spring. Crime walks thy streets, Fraud earns her unblest bread, O'er want and woe thy gorgeous robe is spread, And angel charities in vain oppose: With grandeur's growth the mass of misery grows. For see,--to other climes the Genius soars, He turns from Europe's desolated shores; And lo, even now, midst mountains wrapt in storm, On Andes' heights he shrouds his awful form; On Chimborazo's summits treads sublime, [25] Measuring in lofty thought the march of Time; Sudden he calls:--"'Tis now the hour!" he cries, Spreads his broad hand, and bids the nations rise. La Plata hears amidst her torrents' roar, Potosi hears it, as she digs the ore: Ardent, the Genius fans the noble strife, And pours through feeble souls a higher life, Shouts to the mingled tribes from sea to sea, And swears--Thy world, Columbus, shall be free. THE END. Footnotes: [1] The Historian of the age of Leo has brought into cultivation the extensive tract of Chatmoss. [2] Every reader will recollect the sublime telegraphic dispatch, "England expects every man to do his duty." [3] "I hope England will be satisfied," were the last words of General Moore. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Eighteen Hundred and Eleven by Anna Laetitia Barbauld