Nor  mourns alone her blasted ground,
Pale famine stalks thro' all the regions round:
plain, and  flow'ry hill
Wither'd and bare, the hot contagion feel:
That fertile climate, by peculiar grace,
Design'd the lot of  future race.
Where long with peace, and fatal plenty gay,
The pagan princes bore imperial sway,
Their crimes not full: – While  sojourn'd here
A stranger, as his great forefathers were:
The common fate he shares, with famine press'd,
And for his num'rous family distress'd:
He sends his sons, by heav'nly conduct led,
To  plenteous granaries for bread:
Domestick wants require their utmost haste,
And  regal tow'rs they reach at last.