May no foes ravish thee, and no false friend A. Patriots, alas! the few that have been found, Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law. 335 340 345 Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand. 350 Felt himself crush'd at the first word he spoke. Such men are rais'd to station and command, So Gideon earn'd a victory not his own; Poor England! thou art a devoted deer, Beset with every ill but that of fear. Thee nations hunt; all mark thee for a prey; 355 360 They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at bay. 365 Undaunted still, though wearied and perplex'd, Once Chatham sav'd thee; but who saves thee next? Alas! the tide of pleasure sweeps along All, that should be the boast of British song. TABLE TALK. "Tis not the wreath, that once adorn'd thy brow, Confes'd a God; they kneel'd before they fought, The stream, that feeds the well-spring of the heart, 380 Than Virtue quickens with a warmth divine A. Th' inestimable Estimate of Brown 385 B. And yet his judgment was not fram'd amiss; 390 Its errour, if it err'd, was merely this He thought the dying hour already come, And a complete recov'ry struck him dumb. There is a time and Justice marks the date, 395 400 405 "Tis not, however, insolence and noise, 416 Pray'r only, and the penitential tear, Can call her smiling down, and fix her here. But when a country, (one that I could name,) In prostitution sinks the sense of shame ; 415 When infamous Venality, grown bold, 420 When Av'rice starves, (and never hides his face,) And not a tongue inquires, how, where, or when, Though conscience will have twinges now and then; When profanation of the sacred cause,, 426 In all its parts, times, ministry, and laws, Bespeaks a land, once Christian, fall'n and lost, In all, but wars against that title most; What follows next let cities of great name, 430 And regions long since desolate, proclaim. Nineveh, Babylon, and ancient Rome, Speak to the present times, and times to come; Stop while you may; suspend your mad career; 435 O learn from our example and our fate, Learn wisdom and repentance ere too late. The mind, that slumbers sweetly in her snares, 440 To throw his dark displeasure o'er the scene. 445 All are his instruments; each form of war, The storms that overset the joys of life, Are but his rods to scourge a guilty land, 450 And waste it at the bidding of his hand. He gives the word, and Mutiny soon roars She has one foe, and that one foe the world. 455 And, if he doom that people with a frown, And mark them with a seal of wrath press'd down, The reprobated race grows judgment proof; Earth shakes beneath them, and Heav'n roars above; 460 But nothing scares them from the course they love. To the lascivious pipe and wanton song, That charm down fear, they frolick it along, Down to the gulf, from which is no return. 465 470 When He commands, in whom they place no trust. Vengeance at last pours down upon their coast A long despis'd, but now victorious, host; 475 Gives liberty the last, the mortal shock : A. Such lofty strains embellish what you teach, Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach? 480 B. I know the mind that feels indeed the fire The muse imparts, and can command the lyre, Acts with a force and kindles with a zeal, Whate'er the theme, that others never feel. If human woes her soft attention claim, Along the nerves of every feeling line. But if a deed not tamely to be borne 485 The strings are swept with such a pow'r so loud, 490 The storm of musick shakes th' astonish'd crowd. So, when remote futurity is brought Before the keen inquiry of her thought, A terrible sagacity informs The poet's heart; he looks to distant storms; 495 He hears the thunder ere the tempest low'rs; And, arm'd with strength surpassing human pow'rs, And darts his soul into the dawning plan. Hence in a Roman mouth, the graceful name 500 Of prophet and of poet was the same; Hence, British poets, too, the priesthood shar'd, But no prophetick fires to me belong; I play with syllables, and sport in song. 505 A. At Westminster, where little poets strive To set a distich upon six and five, Where Discipline helps th' op'ning buds of sense, And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, I was a poet too: but modern taste 510 Is so refin'd, and delicate, and chaste, That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms, And thinking I might purchase it too dear, 515 And truth cut short to make a period round, I judg'd a man of sense could scarce do worse, B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit, 520 |