Upon thy foes, was never meant my tafk;
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
Thy joys and forrows 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, whofe very looks
Reflect dishonor on the land I love.
How, in the name of foldiership and sense,
Should England profper, when fuch things, as fmooth
And tender as a girl, all effenced o'er
With odors, and as profligate as sweet,
Who fell 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 Wolfe's great name compatriot with is
Farewell thofe honors, and farewell with them
The hope of fuch 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-fick of his country's fhame,
They made us many foldiers. Chatham ftill
Consulting England's happiness at home,
Secured it by an unforgiving frown
If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought
Put fo much of his heart into his act,
That his example had a magnet's force,
And all were fwift to follow whom all loved.
Those funs are fet. Oh rife fome other fuch!
Or all that we have left, is empty talk
Of old atchievements, and defpair of new.
Now hoift the fail, and let the ftreamers float
Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck
With lavender, and fprinkle liquid sweets,
That no rude favour maritime invade
The nose of nice nobility. Breathe soft
Ye clarionets, and fofter ftill ye flutes,
That winds and waters lull'd by magic founds
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 fhrew.
And let that pafs-'twas but a trick of ftate.
A brave man knows no malice, but at once
Forgets in peace, the injuries of war,
And gives his direft foe a friend's embrace.
And shamed as we have been, to th' very beard
Braved and defied, and in our own fea proved
Too weak for thofe decifive blows, that once
Insured us mast'ry there, we yet retain
Some small pre-eminence, we justly boast
At least fuperior jockeyship, and claim
The honors 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 generous to communicate your skill
To those that need it. Folly is foon learn'd:
And under fuch preceptors, who can fail?
There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only poets know. The fhifts and turns,
Th' expedients and inventions multiform
To which the mind reforts, in chace of terms
Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win-
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T'arrest the fleeting images that fill
The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast,
And force them fit, '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 fituation, hardly lefs,
Than by the labor and the skill it cost,
Are occupations of the poet's mind
So pleafing, and that steal away the thought
With fuch addrefs, from themes of fad import,
That loft in his own mufings, happy man!
He feels th' anxieties of life, denied
Their wonted entertainment, all retire.
Such joys has he that fings. But ah! not such,
Or feldom fuch, the hearers of his fong.
Faftidious, or elfe liftlefs, or perhaps
Aware of nothing arduous in a task
They never undertook, they little note
His dangers or escapes, and haply find
There least amusement where he found the most.
But is amusement all? ftudious of fong,
And yet ambitious not to fing in vain,
I would not trifle merely, though the world
Be loudest in their praise who do no more.
Yet what can fatire, whether grave or gay ?
correct a foible, may chastise
The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress,
Retrench a fword-blade, or displace a patch;
But where are its fublimer trophies found?
What vice has it fubdued? whofe heart reclaim'd
By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform ?
Alas! Leviathan is not fo tamed;
Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and stricken hard,
Turns to the ftroke his adamantine fcales,
That fear no difcipline of human hands.
The pulpit therefore (and I name it, fill'd
With folemn awe, that bids me well beware
With what intent I touch that holy thing)
The pulpit (when the fatʼrift has at last,
Strutting and vap'ring in an empty school,
Spent all his force and made no profelyte)
I fay the pulpit (in the fober use
Of its legitimate, peculiar pow'rs)
Must stand acknowledg'd, while the world shall
The most important and effe&tual guard,
Support and ornament of virtue's cause.
There stands the meffenger of truth. There
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