« ForrigeFortsett »
Τ Η Ε
CO W P E R.
ARTIST, attend! your brushes and your paint-
STAND now, and judge thyself.--Hast thout
incurr’d His anger, who can waste thee with a word, Who poises and proportions sea and land, Weighing them in the hollow of his hand, And in whose awful sight all nations seem As grasshoppers, as dust, a drop, a dream? Hast thou (a sacrilege his soul abhors) Claim'd all the glory of thy prosp'rous wars? Proud of thy fleets and armies, stoln the gem Of his just praise, to lavish it on them? Hast thou not learn’d, what thou art often told, A truth still sacred, and believ'd of old, That no success attends on spears and swords Unblest, and that the battle is the Lord's ? That courage is his creature, and dismay The post that at his bidding speeds away, Ghastly in feature, and his stamm’ring tongue With doleful humour and sad presage hung,
To quell the valour of the stoutest heart,
Hast thou, though suckled at fair freedom's breast,
to sell himself to thee?
make their title good By air oath dipp'd in sacramental blood ?
A blot that will be still a blot, in spite
in vain. And hast thou sworn, on ev'ry slight pretence, Till perjuries are common as bad pence, While thousands, careless of the damning sin, Kiss the book's outside who ne'er look'd within? Hast thou, when heav'n has cloth'd thee with
disgrace, And, long provok’d, repaid thee-to thy face, (For thou hast known eclipses, and endur'd Dimness and anguish, all thy beams obscur’d, When sin has shed dishonour on thy brow; And never of a sabler hue than now) llast thou, with heart perverse and .conscience
sear'd, Despising all rebuke, still persever'd, And, having chosen evil, scorn’d the voice That cried, Repent!—and gloried in thy choice? Thy fastings, when calamity at last Sugerests th' expedient of a yearly fast, What mean they? Canst thou dream there is a pow'r In lighter diet, at a later hour,