Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause
Suspend th' effect, or heal it? Has not God
Still wrought by means fince firft he made the world?
And did he not of old employ his means

To drown it? What is his creation lefs
Than a capacious refervoir 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 whomfoever 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 moft part deform'd With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy fullen fkies, 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 fhake 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 dishonour on the land I love.

How, in the name of foldiership and sense, Should England profper, when fuch things, as fmooth

And tender as a girl, all effenc'd o'er
With odours, and as profligate as sweet;

Who fell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,

And love when they should fight; when such as thefe

Prefume to lay their hand upon the ark

Of her magnificent and awful caufe?

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 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 shame! 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 fwift to follow whom all lov'd. Thofe funs are fet. Oh, rife fome other fuch! Or all that we have left is empty talk

Of old achievements, and despair of new.

Now hoift the fail, and let the ftreamers float Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, 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 fhore!

True, we have loft an empire-let it pafs.

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 fhrew. And let that pafs-'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, fham'd as we have been, to th' very beard
Brav'd and defied, and in our own fea prov'd
Too weak for thofe decifive blows that once
Enfured us maft'ry there, we yet retain
Some small pre-eminence; we juftly boast
At least fuperior jockeyfhip, and claim
The honours of the turf as all our own!
Go, then, well worthy of the praise ye seek,
And fhow the fhame 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 kill
To those that need it. Folly is foon learn'd;
And, under fuch preceptors, who can fail!

There is a pleasure in poetic pains

Which only poets know. The fhifts and turns,

Th' expedients and inventions, multiform,

To which the mind reforts, in chafe of terms
Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win-
Tarreft the fleeting images that fill

The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast,
And force them fit till he has pencil'd off
A faithful likeness of the forms he views;
Then to difpofe his copies with such art,
That each may find its moft propitious light,
And fhine by fituation, hardly lefs

Than by the labour and the fkill it coft;
Are occupations of the poet's mind

So pleafing, and that fteal away the thought
With fuch address from themes of fad import,
That, loft in his own mufings, happy man!
He feels th' anxieties of life, denied

Their wonted entertainment, all retire.

Such joys has he that fings. But ah! not fuch,
Or feldom fuch, the hearers of his fong.
Faftidious, or else liftless, or perhaps
Aware of nothing arduous in a tafk
They never undertook, they little note
His dangers or efcapes, and hap! find

There leaft amufement where he found the moft.