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Suspend th’ effect, or heal it? Has not God
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 eye-salve; ask of him,
Or ask of whomsoever he has taught;
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,
ere 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 hands upon the ark
Of her magnificent and awful cause 2
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 Qf smiling Victory that moment won, And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame! ey 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. O, 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 Ensur'd us mast'ry there, we yet retain Some small pre-eminence; we justly boast At least superior jockeyship, and claim The honours of the turfasoliour 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 ski 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 pencill'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! He feels th’ anxieties of life, denie Their wonted entertainment, all retire. Such joys has he that sings. But, ah! not such, Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps Aware of nothing arduous in a task They never undertook, they little note His dangers or escapes, and haply find Their least amusement where he found the most,
But is amusement all? Studious of song,
And yet ambitious not to sing in vain,
I would not trifle merely, though the world
Be loudest in their praise, who do no more.
Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay?
It may correct a foible, may chastise
The freaks of fashion, regulaté the dress,
Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch;
But where are its sublimer trophies found?
What vice has it subdued? whose heart reclaim'd
By rigour, or whom laugh’d into reform 2
as ' Leviathan is not so tam’d:
Laugh’d at, he laughs again; and stricken hard,
Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales,
That fear no discipline of human hands.
The pulpit, therefore, (and I name it fill’d
With solemn awe, that bids me well beware
With what intent I touch that holy thing)–
The pulpit (when the satrist has at last,
Strutting and vaporing in an empty school,
Spent all his force, and made no proselyte)—
say the pulpit (in the sober use
fits legitimate, peculiar pow'rs)
Muststandacknowledg’d,whilethe world shallstand,
The most important and effectual guard,
Support and ornament of Virtue's cause.
There stands the messenger of truth: there stands
The legate of the skies!—His theme divine,
is office sacred, his credentials clear.
By him the violated law speaks out
Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet
angels use, the Gospel whispers peace.
He stablishes the strong, restores the weak,
claims the wand’rer, binds the broken heart,
And, arm'd himself in panoply complete
Qi heav'nly temper, furnishes with arms
right as his own, and trains, by ev’ry rule
Of holy discipline, to glorious war,
The sacramental host of God's elect!
Are all such teachers?—would to Heav'n all were ! .
But,hark—the doctor's voice!—fast wedg’d between
Two empirics he stands, and with swoln cheeks
Inspires 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 shame,
Announces to the world his own and theirs |
He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd,
And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone,
And emphasis in score, and gives to pray’r
Th’ adagio and andante it demands.
He grinds divinity of other days
Down into modern use; transforms old print
To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes
Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts.
Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware?
O, name it not in Gath !—it cannot be,
That 'grave and learned clerks should need such aid.
He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll,
Assuming thus a rank unknown before—
Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church 1
I venerate the man, whose heart is warm, slife,
Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose
Coincident, exhibit lucid proof
That he is honest in the sacred cause.
To such I render more than mere respect,
Whose actions say that they respect themselves.
But loose in morals, and in manners vain,
In conversation frivolous, in dress
Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse;
Frequent in park with lady at his side,
Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes;
But rare at home, and never at his books,
Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card;
Constant at routs, familiar with a round
Of ladyships, a stranger to the poor;