Thou fool! will thy discov'ry of the cause

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 eyesalve; 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 stillMy 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. 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 preeminence; 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 pencill'd off
A faithful likeness of the forms he views;
Then to dispose his copies with such art,
That each may find it's 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, denied

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.