Or, just to make it hang together,
And keep off the effects of weather,
Was patch'd and patch'd from time to time
By wretches whom it were a crime,
A crime which Art would treason hold,
To mention with those names of old.
Builders, who had the pile survey'd,
And those not Flitcrofts in their trade,
Doubted (the wise hand in a doubt
Merely sometimes to hand her out)
Whether (like churches in a brief
Taught wisely to obtain relief
Through Chancery, who gives her fees
To this and other charities)
It must not, in all parts unsound,
Be ripp'd, and pull'd down to the ground;
Whether (though after ages ne'er
Shall raise a building to compare)
Art, if they should their art employ,
Meant to preserve, might not destroy,
As human bodies, worn away,
Batter'd and hasting to decay,
Bidding the power of Art despair,
Cannot those very medicines bear
Which, and which only can restore,
And make them healthy as before.
To Liberty, whose gracious smile
Shed peace
and plenty o'er the isle,
Our grateful ancestors, her plain
But faithful children, raised this fane.
Full in the front, stretch'd out in length, Where Nature put forth all her strength
1 Henry Flitcroft, an architect, was Surveyor to the Board of Works.
In spring eternal, lay a plain
Where our brave fathers used to train
Their sons to arms, to teach the art
Of war, and steel the infant heart;
Labour, their hardy nurse, when young
Their joints had knit, their nerves had strung;
Abstinence, foe declared to death,
Had, from the time they first drew breath,
The best of doctors, with plain food
Kept pure the channel of their blood;
Health in their cheeks bade colour rise,
And Glory sparkled in their eyes.
The instruments of husbandry,
As in contempt, were all thrown by,
And, flattering a manly pride,
War's keener tools their place supplied.
Their arrows to the head they drew;
Swift to the point their javelins flew ;
They grasp'd the sword, they shook the spear;
Their fathers felt a pleasing fear,
And even Courage, standing by,
Scarcely beheld with steady eye.
Each stripling, lesson'd by his sire,
Knew when to close, when to retire;
When near at hand, when from afar
To fight, and was himself a war.
Their wives, their mothers, all around,
Careless of order, on the ground,
Breathed forth to Heaven the pious vow,
And for a son's or husband's brow,
With eager fingers, laurel wove;
Laurel, which in the sacred grove
Planted by Liberty, they find,
The brows of conquerors to bind,
To give them pride and spirits fit
To make a world in arms submit.
What raptures did the bosom fire
Of the young, rugged, peasant sire,
When, from the toil of mimic fight,
Returning with return of night,
He saw his babe resign the breast,
And, smiling, stroke those arms in jest,
With which hereafter he shall make
The proudest heart in Gallia quake!
Gods! with what joy, what honest pride,
Did each fond, wishing, rustic bride
Behold her manly swain return!
How did her lovesick bosom burn,
Though on parades he was not bred,
Nor wore the livery of red,
When, Pleasure heightening all her charms, She strain'd her warrior in her arms,
And begg'd, whilst love and glory fire,
A son, a son just like his sire!
Such were the men in former times,
Ere luxury had made our crimes
Our bitter punishment, who bore
Their terrors to a foreign shore;
Such were the men who, free from dread,
By Edwards and by Henries led,
Spread, like a torrent swell'd with rains,
O'er haughty Gallia's trembling plains:
Such were the men, when lust of power,
To work him woe, in evil hour
Debauch'd the tyrant from those ways
On which a king should found his praise;
When stern Oppression, hand in hand
With Pride, stalk'd proudly through the land;
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