Or make his house his grave: nor so content,
Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood,
And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs.
What then!-were they the wicked above all, 150
And we the righteous, whose fast anchor'd isle
Mov'd not, while theirs was rock'd, like a light skiff,
The sport of ev'ry wave? No: none are clear,
And none than we more guilty. But, where all
Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts
Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark:
May punish, if he please, the less, to warn
The more malignant. If he spar'd not them,
Tremble and be amaz'd at thine escape,
Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee!

Happy the man, who sees a God employ'd In all the good and ill, that checker life! Resolving all events, with their effects

And manifold results, into the will

And arbitration wise of the Supreme.

160

Did not his eye rule all things, and intend

The least of our concerns (since from the least
The greatest oft originate;) could chance

Find place in his dominion, or dispose
One lawless particle to thwart his plan;

Then God might be surpris'd, and unforeseen
Contingence might alarm him, and disturb
The smooth and equal course of his affairs,
This truth Philosophy, though eagle-ey'd
In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks;

170

And, having found his instrument, forgets,
Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still,
Denies the pow'r, that wields it. God proclaims
His hot displeasure against foolish men,

That live an atheist life: involves the Heav'ns 180
In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds,
And gives them all their fury: bids a plague
Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin,

And putrefy the breath of blooming Health,
He calls for famine, and the meagre fiend

Blows mildew from between his shrivell❜d lips,

And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines

And desolates a nation at a blast.

Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells
Of homogeneal and discordant springs

And principles; of causes, how they work
By necessary laws their sure effects;

Of action and reaction: he has found

The source of the disease, that nature feels,

And bids the world take heart and banish fear.

Thou fool! will thy discov'ry of the cause
Suspend th' effect, or heal it? Has not God

190

Still wrought by means since first he made the world? And did he not of old employ his means

To drown it? What is his creation less

Than a capacious reservoir of means

Form'd for his use, and ready at his will?

Go, dress thine eyes with eyesalve; ask of him, Or ask of whomsoever he has taught;

200

And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all.

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,

210

220

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?

230

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 240 Each in his field of glory; one in arms,

And one in council.-Wolfe upon

the lap

Of smiling Victory that moment won,