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viii A Letter srom Italy,
Thou rnak’st the Gloomy face of Nature Gay,
Giv’st Beauty to the Sun, and Pleasure to the Day.
Thee, Goddess, Thee, Britannia's Isse adores;
How has fire oftexhausted all her Stores,
How oft in Fields of Death thy Presence sought?
Nor thinks the mighty Prize too dearly bought.
On Foreign Mountains may the Sun resine
The Grape’s soft Juice, and mellow it to Wine,
With Citron Groves adorn a distant Soil,
And the fat Olive swell with Floods of Oil:
We envy not the warmer Clime that lies
In ten Degrees of more indulgent Skies,
Nor at the Coarseness of our Heav’n repine,
Tho’ o’er our Heads the frozen Pleiads shine:
’Tis Liberty that Crowns Britannia's Isse,
And makes her barren Rocks and her bleak Moun-
tains smile.
Others with tow’ring Piles may pleasethe Sight,
And in their proud aspiring Domes delight;

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