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The earth fhall shake him out of all his holds,

Or make his house 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

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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 furprized, and unforefeen
Contingence might alarm him, and disturb
The smooth 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 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 fkin,

And putrify the breath of blooming health.

He

He calls for famine, and the meagre fie nd

Blows mildew from between his fhrivel'd lips,
And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines,
And defolates a nation at a blast.

Forth steps the spruce philofopher, and tells
Of homogeneal and difcordant fprings
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 difcov'ry of the caufe
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, drefs thine eyes with eye-falve, afk of him,

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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 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 just disdain

Frown

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 fuch 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 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 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

Of

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