Gone with the refluent wave into the deep- A prince with half his people! Ancient tow'rs, And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes Where beauty oft and letter'd worth consume Life in the unproductive shades of death, Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth, And, happy in their unforeseen release From all the rigours of restraint enjoy, The terrours of the day that sets them free. Who, then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast, Freedom! whom they that lose thee so regret, That e'en a judgment, making way for thee, Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake? Such evil Sin hath wrought; and such a flame Kindled in Heav'n, that it burns down to Earth, And in the furious inquest that it makes
On God's behalf, lays waste his fairest works. The very elements, though each be meant The minister of man, to serve his wants, Conspire against him. With his breath he draws A plague into his blood; and cannot use Life's necessary means, but he must die. Storms rise t' o'erwhelm him; or if stormy winds Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, And, needing none assistance of the storm, Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, Or make his house his grave: nor so content, Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. What then!-were they the wciked above all, And we the righteous, whose fast-anchor'd isle Mov'd not, while theirs was rock'd, like a light skiff, The sport of every wave? No; none are clear, And none than we more guilty. But, where all Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts
Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark: May punish, if he please, the less, to warn The more malignant. If he spar'd not them, Tremble and be amaz'd at thine escape, Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee! Happy the man, who sees a God employ'd In all the good and ill that checker life! Resolving all events, with their effects. And manifold results, into the will And arbitration wise of the Supreme. Did not his eye rule all things, and intend The least of our concerns; (since from the least The greatest oft originate ;) could chance Find place in his dominion, or dispose One lawless particle to thwart his plan; Then God might be surpris'd, and unforeseen Contingence might alarm him, and disturb The smooth and equal course of his affairs. This truth Philosophy, though eagle-ey'd In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks; And, having found his instrument, forgets, Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims His hot displeasure against foolish men, That live an atheist life; involves the Heavens In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds, And gives them all their fury; bids a plague Kindle a fiery bile upon the skin,
And putrefy the breath of blooming Health. He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from beneath his shrivell'd lips, And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines, And desolates a nation at a blast.
Forth steps the spruce Philosopher, and tells Of homogeneal and discordant springs,
And principles; of causes how they work
By necessary laws their sure, effects
Of action and reaction: he has found The source of the disease that nature feels, And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool? will thy discov'ry of the cause Suspend th' effect, or heal it? Has not God Still wrought by means since first he made the world? And did he not of old employ his means To drown it? What is his creation less, Than a capacious reservoir of means, Form'd for his use, and ready at his will? Go, dress thine eyes with eye salve; ask of Him, Or ask of whomsoever he has taught;
And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. England, with all thy faults, I love the still- My country! and, while yet a nook is left, Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France With all her vines: nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs. To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my task : But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart As any thund'rer there. And I can feel Thy follies too; and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates, whose very looks Reflect dishonor on the land I love.
How in the name of soldiership and 'sense,
Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er
With odours, and as profligate as sweet; Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, And love when they should fight: when such as ti Presume to lay their hand upon the ark Of her magnificent and awful cause?
Time was when it was .praise and boast enough In every clime, and travel where we might, That we were born her children. Praise enough To fill th' ambition of a private man
That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his ow Farewell those honours, and farewell with them The hope of such hereafter! They have fall'n Each in his field of glory; one in arms, And one in council-Wolfe upon the lap Of smiling Victory that moment won, And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame! They made us many soldiers. Cnatham, still Consulting England's happiness at home, Secur'd it by an unforgiving frown,
If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, Put so much of his heart into his act,
That his example had a magnet's force,
And all were swift to follow whom all lov'd. Those suns are set. O rise some other such? Or all that we have left is empty talk Of old achievements and despair of new.
Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, That no rude savour maritime invade The nose of nice nobility! Breathe soft, Ye clarionets; and softer still, ye flutes; That winds and waters, lull'd by magick sounds, May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore. True, we have lost an empire-let it pass.
True, we may thank the perfidy of France, That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown, With all the cunning of an envious shrew. And let that pass-'twas but a trick of state- A brave man knows no malice, but at once Forgets in peace the injuries of war,
And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. And sham'd as we have been, to th' very beard Brav'd and defied, and in our own sea prov'd Too weak for those decisive blows that once Ensur'd us mast'ry there, we yet retain Some small pre-eminence; we justly boast At least superiour jockeyship, and claim The honours of the turf as all our own! Go, then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, And show the shame ye might conceal at home, In foreign eyes!-be grooms and win the plate, Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!- 'Tis gen'rous to communicate your skill
To those that need it. Folly is soon learn'd: And under such preceptors who can fail? There is a pleasure in poetick pains,
Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, Th' expedients and inventions multiform, To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms, Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win T'arrest the fleeting images, that fill The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, And force them sit, till he has pencil'd off A faithful likeness of the forms he views; Then to dispose his copies with such art, That each may find its most propitious light, And shine by situation, hardly less Than by the labour and the skill it cost; Are occupations of the poet's mind
So pleasing, and that steal away the thought,
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