I would not yet exchange thy fullen skies,
And fields without a flower, for warmer France
With all her vines; nor for Aufonia's groves
Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers.
To shake thy fenate, and from heights fublime
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task:
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
Thy joys and forrows, with as true a heart
As any thunderer there. And I can feel
Thy follies too; and with a just disdain
Frown at effeminates, whofe very looks
Reflect difhonour 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 over

With odours, and as profligate as sweet;

Who fell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,

And love when they should fight; when fuch as these Prefume to lay their hand upon the ark

Of her magnificent and awful cause?

Time was when it was praife and boaft enough
In every clime, and travel where we might,
That we were born her children. Praise enough
To fill the ambition of a private man,

That Chatham's language was his mother tongue,

And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.
Farewell thofe honours, and farewell with them
The hope of fuch hereafter! They have fallen
Each in his field of glory; one in arms,
And one in council-Wolfe upon the lap
Of fmiling victory that moment won,
And Chatham heart-fick of his country's fhame!
They made us many foldiers. Chatham, ftill
Confulting England's happiness at home,

Secured it by an unforgiving frown,

If any wronged her. Wolfe, wherever 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 achievements, and despair of new.

Now hoift the fail, and let the streamers float Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck With lavender, and fprinkle liquid fweets, That no rude favour maritime invade The nofe of nice nobility! Breathe soft Ye clarionets; and fofter ftill ye flutes; That winds and waters, lulled by magic founds, May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore!

True, we have loft an empire-let it pass.
True; we may thank the perfidy of France,
That picked the jewel out of England's crown,
With all the cunning of an envious fhrew.
And let that pass-'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, fhamed as we have been, to the very beard
Braved and defied, and in our own fea proved
Too weak for thofe decifive blows, that once
Ensured us maftery there, we yet retain
Some small pre-eminence; we justly boast
At least fuperior 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

To those that need it. Folly is foon learned:
And under fuch preceptors who can fail!

There is a pleasure in poetic pains,

Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, The expedients and inventions multiform,

To which the mind reforts, in chase of terms
Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win-
To arreft the fleeting images, that fill
The mirror of the mind, and hold them faft,
And force them fit, till he has penciled off
A faithful likeness of the forms he views;
Then to dispose his copies with fuch art,
That each may find its most propitious light,
And shine by fituation, hardly less
Than by the labour and the skill it coft;
Are occupations of the poet's mind

So pleafing, and that steal away the thought
With fuch address from themes of fad import,
That, loft in his own mufings, happy man!
He feels the 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 else liftlefs, or perhaps
Aware of nothing arduous in a task,
They never undertook, they little note
His dangers or escapes, and haply find

Their leaft amusement where he found the moft.
But is amufement all? ftudious of fong,

And

yet ambitious not to fing in vain,

I would not trifle merely, though the world

Be loudeft in their praise, who do no more.
Yet what can fatire whether grave or gay?
It may 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 reclaimed
By rigour, or whom laughed into reform?
Alas! Leviathan is not fo tamed:

Laughed at he laughs again; and ftricken hard
Turns to the ftroke his adamantine fcales,
That fear no difcipline of human hands.

The pulpit, therefore (and I name it filled With folemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing)The pulpit (when the fatyrift has at last, Strutting and vapouring in an empty fchool, Spent all his force and made no profelyte)

I fay the pulpit (in the fober ufe

Of its legitimate, peculiar powers)

Muft ftand acknowledged, while the world shall stand,

The most important and effectual guard,

Support, and ornament, of virtue's caufe.

There ftands the meffenger of truth: there ftands

The legate of the fkies!-His theme divine,