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,
Secur'd 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 lov'd. Thofe 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 ftreamers float Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck With lavender, and sprinkle liquid fweets, 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 thore! True, we have loft 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 direft foe a friend's embrace.
And, fham'd as we have been, to th' very beard
Brav'd and defied, and in our own fea prov'd
Too weak for those decisive blows that once
Enfured us maft'ry there, we yet retain
Some small pre-eminence; we juftly boaft
At leaft fuperior jockeyfhip, and claim
The honours of the turf as all our own!
Go, then, well worthy of the praise ye seek,
And how the fhame 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 thofe 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.
Th' expedients and inventions, multiform,
To which the mind reforts, in chafe of terms
Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win-
Tarreft 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 difpofe his copies with such art,
That each may find its moft propitious light,
And shine by fituation, hardly lefs
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 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 fuch,
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 efcapes, and haply find
There least amusement where he found the most.
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 difplace a patch;
But where are its fublimer trophies found?
What vice has it fubdu'd? whofe heart reclaim'd
By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform?
Alas! Leviathan is not fo tam'd:
Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and, ftricken hard,
Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales,
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 fat'rift has at laft,
Strutting and vap'ring in an empty school,
Spent all his force and made no profelyte)-
I fay the pulpit (in the sober use
Of its legitimate, peculiar pow'rs)
Muft ftand acknowledg'd, while the world fhall
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 skies!-His theme divine,
His office facred, his credentials clear.
By him the violated law speaks out
Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet
As angels ufe, the gofpel whispers peace.
He 'stablishes the ftrong, reftores the weak,
Reclaims the wand'rer, binds the broken heart,
And, arm'd himself in panoply complete
Of heav'nly temper, furnishes with arms,
Bright as his own, and trains, by ev'ry rule
Of holy discipline, to glorious war,
The facramental hoft of God's elect!
Are all fuch teachers?-would to heav'n all were!
But hark-the doctor's voice!-faft wedg'd between
Two empirics he ftands, and with fwoln cheeks
Infpires the news, his trumpet. Keener far
Than all invective is his bold harangue,
While through that public organ of report
He hails the clergy; and, defying fhame,
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