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 juft difdain 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 o'er
With odours, and as profligate as fweet,
Who fell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
And love when they should fight; when fuch as thefe
Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
Of her magnificent and awful caufe?
Time was when it was praife and boast enough In ev'ry clime, and travel where we might, That we were born her children. Praife 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
Farewell thofe honours, 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 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 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 rise 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 streamers float Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, That no rude favour maritime invade The nose of nice nobility. Breathe foft Ye clarionets, and fofter ftill ye flutes, That winds and waters lull'd by magic founds May bear us smoothly to the Gallic fhore. 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 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 fhamed as we have been, to th' very Braved and defied, and in our own fea proved. Too weak for thofe decifive blows, that once Infured us maft'ry there, we yet retain Some finall 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 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 shifts and turns, Th' expedients and inventions multiform
To which the mind reforts, in chace of terms Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win— T'arreft the fleeting images that fill
The mirror of the mind, and hold them faft, And force them fit, 'till he has pencil'd off A faithful likeness of the forms he views; Then to difpofe his copies with fuch art That each may find its moft propitious light, And fhine by fituation, hardly lefs,
Than by the labour and the fkill it coft, Are occupations of the poet's mind
So pleasing, 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 leaft 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 drefs, 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)
Muft ftand acknowledg'd, while the world fhall ftand,
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, His office facred, his credentials clear.
By him the violated law fpeaks out
Its thunders, and by him, in ftrains as sweet As angels use, the gospel whispers peace. He stablishes the strong, restores 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,
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