Of gratulation and delight, her king? Pours the not all her choicest fruits abroad, Her sweetest flow'rs, her aromatic gums, Difclofing paradife where'er he treads?
She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb, Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps And fiery caverns roars beneath his foot.
The hills move lightly, and the mountains smoke, For he has touch'd them. From th' extremeft point Of elevation down into th' abyfs
His wrath is bufy, and his frown is felt.
The rocks fall headlong, and the vallies rife,
The rivers die into offenfive pools,
And, charg'd with putrid verdure, breathe a grofs And mortal nuifance into all the air. What folid was, by transformation strange, Grows fluid; and the fixt and rooted earth, Tormented into billows, heaves and fwells, Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl Sucks down its prey infatiable. Immenfe The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs And agonies of human and of brute Multitudes, fugitive on ev'ry fide, And fugitive in vain. The fylvan scene Migrates uplifted; and, with all its foil Alighting in far diftant fields, finds out
Happy the man who fees a God employ'd In all the good and ill that chequer life! Refolving all events, with their effects
And manifold results, into the will And arbitration wife of the Supreme.
Did not his eye rule all things, and intend The leaft of our concerns (fince from the leaft The greatest oft originate); could chance Find place in his dominion, or difpofe One lawless particle to thwart his plan; Then God might be surpris'd, and unforeseen Contingence might alarm him, and difturb The fmooth and equal courfe of his affairs. This truth philofophy, though eagle-eyed In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks; And, having found his inftrument, forgets, Or difregards, or more presumptuous still, Denies the pow'r that wields it. God proclaims His hot difpleasure against foolish men, That live an atheift life: involves the heav'n In tempefts quits his grafp upon the winds, And gives them all their fury; bids a plague Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin,
And putrify the breath of blooming health. He calls for famine, and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from between his fhrivel'd lips,
And taints the golden ear. He fprings his mines, And defolates a nation at a blast.
Forth fteps the spruce philofopher, and tells Of homogeneal and discordant springs And principles; of caufes, how they work By neceffary laws their fure effects;
Of action and re-action. He has found The fource of the disease that nature feels, And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool! will thy difcovery of the cause Sufpend th' effect, or heal it? Has not God Still wrought by means fince first he made the world? And did he not of old employ his means
To drown it? What is his creation lefs Than a capacious reservoir of means Form'd for his ufe, and ready at his will
Go, dress thine eyes with eye-falve; ask of him, Or afk of whom foever he has taught;
And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all.
England, with all thy faults, I love thee ftillMy 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 froft,
I would not yet exchange thy fullen skies, And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Aufonia's groves Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs. To shake thy fenate, and from heights fublime 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 forrows, with as true a heart As any thund'rer there. And I can feel Thy follies, too; and with a juft disdain Frown at effeminates, whofe very looks Reflect difhonour on the land I love.
How, in the name of foldiership and fenfe,
Should England profper, when fuch things, as smooth
And tender as a girl, all effenc'd o'er
With odours, and as profligate as fweet;
Who fell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
And love when they should fight; when fuch as these Prefume to lay their hand upon the ark
Of her magnificent and awful cause?
Time was when it was praife 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 thofe honours, and farewell with them The hope of fuch 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-fick of his country's fhame! They made us many foldiers. Chatham, ftill Confulting England's happiness at home,
Secur'd it by an unforgiving frown,
If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, Put fo 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 funs are fet. Oh, rife fome other fuch! Or all that we have left is empty talk
Of old achievements, and defpair of new.
Now hoift the fail, and let the ftreamers float Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck With lavender, and fprinkle liquid fweets, That no rude favour maritime invade The nofe of nice nobility! Breathe soft, Ye clarionets; and fofter ftill, ye flutes; That winds and waters, lull'd by magic founds, May bear us fmoothly to the Gallic shore!
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