The earth fhall fhake him out of all his holds,
Or make his houfe his grave. Nor fo content, Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, And drown him in her dry and dufty gulphs. What then-were they the wicked above all, And we the righteous, whose fast-anchor'd isle Moved not, while their's was rock'd like a light skiff, The sport of ev'ry wave? No: none are clear, And none than we more guilty. But where all Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts Of wrath obnoxious, God may chufe his mark: May punish, if he please, the less, to warn The more malignant. If he fpar'd not them, Tremble and be amazed at thine escape Far guiltier England, left he spare not thee.
Happy the man who fees a God employed In all the good and ill that checquer 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 least of our concerns (fince from the least The greatest oft originate), could chance Find place in his dominion, or difpofe One lawless particle to thwart his plan, Then God might be surprized, and unforeseen Contingence might alarm him, and disturb The smooth and equal course 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 prefumptuous ftill Denies the pow'r that wields it. God proclaims His hot displeasure 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 steps the spruce philofopher, and tells Of homogeneal and difcordant fprings And principles; of causes 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 discov'ry 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 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 still My 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 skies And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Aufonia's groves Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bow'rs. To shake thy senate, 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 just disdain
Frown at effeminates, whofe very looks
Reflect dishonor on the land I love.
How, in the name of foldiership and sense,
Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth And tender as a girl, all effenced o'er
With odors, and as profligate as sweet,
Who fell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
And love when they fhould fight; when fuch as these Presume 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 honors, 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
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