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 effenced 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 fallin
Each in his field of glory: one in arms,
And one in council. Wolfe upon the lap

Of

Of smiling victory that moment won,
And Chatham, heart-fick of his country's shame.
They made us many soldiers. Chatham still
Consulting England's happiness at home,
Secured 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 loved.
Those suns are fet. Oh rise some other such !
Or all that we have left, is empty talk
Of old atchievements, and despair of new.

Now hoist 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 soft
Ye clarionets, and softer still ye flutes,
That winds and waters lulld 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

And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace.
And shamed as we have been, to th' very beard
Braved and defied, and in our own fea proved
Too weak for those decisive blows, that once
Insured us mastry there, we yet retain
Some small pre-eminence, we justly boast
At least superior jockeyship, and claim
The honours of the turfas all our own.
Go then, well worthy of the praise ye feek,
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 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 chace 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 faft,
And force them fit, 'till he has pencil'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

Than by the labour and the fkill 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 loft 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 talk
They never undertook, they little note
His dangers or escapes, and haply find
There least amusement where he found the mofte
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, regulate 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 ?
Alas ! Leviathan is not so tamed ;
Laugh'd at, he laughs again ; and stricken hard,

Turns

Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales,
That fear no discipline 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 fat'rift has at last, Strutting and vap'ring in an empty school, Spent all his force and made no profelyte) I say the pulpit (in the fober use Of its legitimate, peculiar pow'rs) Must stand acknowledg'd, while the world shall

stand, 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, His office sacred, his credentials clear, By him the violated law speaks out Its thunders, and by him, in strains 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,

The