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
With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France
With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves

Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs.
To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime
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 sorrows, 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, whose very looks Reflect dishonour on the land I love.

How, in the name of soldiership and sense,

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 Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.
Farewell those honours, and farewell with them
The hope of such 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-sick of his country's shame!

They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still
Consulting England's happiness at home,
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,

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; 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,

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,
Th' expedients and inventions, multiform,
To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms
Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win-
T'arrest the fleeting images that fill

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

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