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.

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England, with all thy faults, I love thee 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

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With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,

And fields without a flower, for warmer France
With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves
Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs.

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To shake thy senate, and, from heights sublime

Of patriot eloquence, to flash down fre
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 thunderer there. And I can feel
Thy follies, too; and, with a just disdain,
Frown at effeminates, whose very looks
Reflect dishonour on the land I love.

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How, in the name of soldiership and sense,

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Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth

And tender as a giri, 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

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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,

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That Chatham's language was his mother tongue,
And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.
Farewell those honours, and farewell, with them,
The hope of such hereafter! They have fallen,
Each in his field of glory; one in arms,

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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. Chatham, still
Consulting England's happiness at home,

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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,

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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;

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That winds and waters, lull'd by magic 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,

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And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace.

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And, sham'd as we have been, to the very beard,

Brav'd and defied, and in our own sea prov'd

Too weak for those decisive blows that once

Ensur'd us mastery 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 generous to communicate your skill

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To those that need it. Folly is soon learn'd:

And, under such preceptors, who can fail!

There is a pleasure in poetic pains

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Which only poets know. The shifts and turns,

The expedients and inventions multiform,

To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms
Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win
To arrest the fleeting images that fill

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The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast,
Aad 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

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So pleasing, and that steal away the thought
With such address from themes of sad import,
That, lost in his own musings, happy man!
He feels the anxieties of life, denied

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Their wonted entertainment, all retire.

Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such,
Or seldom such, the hearers of his song.
Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps

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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.

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But is amusement all? studious of song,
And yet ambitious not to sing in vain,

I would not trifle merely, though the world
Be loudest in their praise who do no more.
Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay?
It may correct a feible, may chastise
The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress,
Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch;
But where are its sublimer trophies found?

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What vice has it subdu'd? whose heart reclaim'd

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By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform ?
Alas! Leviathan is not so tam'd:

Laughed at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard,
Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales,

That fear no discipline of human hands.

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The pulpit, therefore, (and I name it fill'd With solemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing)The pulpit (when the satirist has at last, Strutting and vapouring in an empty school,

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Spent all his force and made no proselyte)—

I say the pulpit (in the sober use

Of its legitimate, peculiar powers)

Must stand acknowledg'd, while the world shall stand,

The most important and effectual guard,

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Support, and ornament, of virtue's cause.

There stands the messenger of truth: there stands
The legate of the skies!-His theme divine,
His office sacred, his credentials clear.
By him the violated law speaks out

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Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet
As angels use, the gospel whispers peace.
He stablishes the strong, restores the weak,
Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart,
And, arm'd himself in panoply complete
Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms,

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Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule
Of holy discipline, to glorious war,

The sacramental host of God's elect!

Are all such teachers?-would to heav'n all were !

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But hark! the doctor's voice !-fast wedg'd between

Two empirics he stands, and with swoln cheeks
Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far
Than all invective is his bold harangue,
While through that public organ of report

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He hails the clergy; and, defying shame,

Announces to the world his own and their's!

He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd,

And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone,

And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer

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The adagio and andante it demands.

He grinds divinity of other days

Down into modern use; transforms old print

To zig-zag manuscript, and cheats the eyes
Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.

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Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware?

Oh, name it not in Gath!--it cannot be,

That grave and learned clerks should need such aid.

He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll,

Assuming thus a rank unknown before

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Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church!

I venerate the man whose heart is warm,

Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life,
Coincident, exhibit lucid proof

That he is honest in the sacred cause.

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To such I render more than mere respect,

Whose actions say that they respect themselves.

But, loose in morals, and in manners vain,.
In conversation frivolous, in dress

Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse;

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Frequent in park with lady at his side,
Ambling and pratling scandal as he goes;
But rare at home, and never at his books,
Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card;
Constant at routs, familiar with a round
Of ladyships-a stranger to the poor;
Ambitious of preferment for its gold,
And well prepar'd, by ignorance and sloth,
By infidelity and love of the world,

To make God's work a sinecure; a slave
To his own pleasures and his patron's pride :-
From such apostles, oh, ye mitred heads,
Preserve the church! and lay not careless hands
On sculls that cannot teach, and will not learn.

Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul,
Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own-
Paul should himself direct me. I would trace
His master strokes, and draw from his design.
I would express him simple, grave, sincere ;
In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain,
And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste,
And natural in gesture; much impress'd
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge,
And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds
May feel it too; affectionate in look,
And tender in address, as well becomes
A messenger of grace to guilty men.
Behold the picture !-Is it like ?-Like whom?
The things that mount the rostrum with a skip,
And then skip down again; pronounce a text;
Cry-hem; and, reading what they never wrote,
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene!

In man or woman, but far most in man,
And most of all in man that ministers
And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe
All affectation "Tis my perfect scorn;

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405

410

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Object of my implacable disgust.

What!-will a man play tricks, will he indulge

A silly fond conceit of his fair form,

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And just proportion, fashionable mien,
And pretty face, in presence of his God?
Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes,
As with the diamond on his lily hand,