While struggling in the vale of tears below, Angelic gratulations rend the skies: Humility is crown'd; and faith receives the prize. In England's case to move the muse to tears? From side to side of her delightful isle, To darker climes, or climes of brighter day; Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll, The chariots, bounding in her wheel-worn streets; The scenes to which not youth alone resorts, Sighs unregarded to the passing wind. Then wherefore weep for England? What appears There were the scorner's and the sland'rer's tongue; And the dull service of the lip, were there. Were just such trifles, without worth or use, Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd and flounc'd around, He saw his people slaves to ev'ry lust, Jerusalem a prey, her glory soil'd, Her princes captive, and her treasures spoil'd; Stamp'd with his foot; and smote upon his thigh: |