The miscellaneous essays and occasional writings of Francis Hopkinson, Esq

Illustrious Worcester; let thy patient ear,
Receive our sorrows, and with pity hear;
Oh! haste, and shield with thy protecting hand
The thistles, docks, and nettles of this land.

There was a time when our increasing race,
Had long in calm possession held this place:
See yon fair park, those blooming gardens see,
Beside each stream, and underneath each tree,
We rear'd our lofty crest, and all around,
With unmolested foilage spread the ground;
Those days of peace, alas! are now no more:
Who shall to us those days of peace restore?
Our num'rous race destroy'd, our empire lost;
Nor garden, park, nor stream, nor shade we boast;

140

Up rose our foe, with unrelenting hand,
And fatal steel, to root us from the land;
Amongst our tribes destruction marks her way,
To us 'tis mortal, but to her 'tis play;
None, none escape! young, old, and short and tall,
Before her powerful arm unpitied fall;
Docks, thistles, nettles round her mangled lie,
And in one common heap of ruin die.

In vain, we thistles, our high lineage bring,
From ancient thrones; the pride of Scotland's king;
Ah! what avails! that born thro' war's alarms,
Our sacred flow'r grac'd Caledonia's arms;
Wav'd in her banner, glitter'd on her shield,
And spur'd her heroe to the martial field;
In vain we claim a kingdom for our own,
Or boast that now we deck the British throne.

Soon as from earth we spring erect and gay,
And spread our purple tassels to the day;
With fatal steel her hands our stalks divide,
And to the dust bring down our with'ring pride.
And yet, oh! strange to tell! the courteous fair,
To all around, extends her nursing care;
With placid smiles and with benignant mind,
To other's gentle, but to us unkind:
Oh! say what dire offence hath caus'd our woe,
And made that breast, where pity dwells, a foe?
Or rather say, what can our state restore,
And sooth her rage that she destroy no more.

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Nor her alone we fear , a hostile hand,
O'er the seas wasted from a distant land,
Pours dire destruction on our harmless race,
And fills with heaps of slaughter ev'ry place.

When western breezes with a murm'ring sound
Shook the small leaf and wav'd the groves around,
We little thought the soft and pleasing gale,
Fill'd for our mortal foe the swelling sale:
Unwelcome guest! thy coming we deplore,
And wish thee back upon thy native shore.
Are there no thistles there thy hands t'employ?
Are there no docks or nettles to destroy?
But must we fall, and whilst we sue in vain,
Be lopt and left to languish on the plain?

In vain hath nature with indulgent care,
On wings of down high pois'd our seed in air,
And bid the winds the little treasures bear;
For in their cells, e'er they're learnt to fly,
Cut off, unfledg'd the seeds prolific die.
In this distress on thee, our Lord we call;
Save us from ruin, e'er we perish all!
Oh! great and good to mercy still inclin'd,
Let this our pray'r with thee acceptance find.

Small our request—not where thy harvests glow,
Do we desire, or would presume to grow;

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In humble state beneath each hedge to stand,
Is all we ask from thy benignant hand.
So shall our tribes exult in harmless joy,
Nor e'er with pointed sting thy hands annoy;
But thro' these fields we'll celebrate thy fame,
And thistles yet unsown shall bless great Worcester's name.

Hartlebury Castle, 1766.

These lines were occasioned by Mrs. I---'s, my Lord's sister, rooting out the thistles, &c. from the gardens, walks, and park with uncommon industry and care.

The author.

University of Virginia Library

THE HUMBLE PETITION

Of the Docks, thistles, and nettles of Hartlebury Farm, to the Lord Bishop of Worcester.