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 these Presume to lay their hand upon the ark Of her magnificent and awful cause? Time was when it was praise and boast enough In ev'ry 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 Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame! They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still 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. Oh, 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; May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore! True, we have lost an empire-let it pass. A brave man knows no malice, but at once 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 Ensured us mast'ry there, we yet retain Some small pre-eminence; we justly boast At least superior 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 poetic pains Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, Than by the labour and the skill it cost; So pleasing, and that steal away the thought He feels th' anxieties of life, denied Their wonted entertainment, all retire. Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such, Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps His dangers or escapes, and haply find I would not trifle merely, though the world The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform? |