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Of smiling victory that moment won,
And Chatham, heart-sick of his country's shame.
They made us many foldiers. Chatham still
Consulting England's happiness at home,
Secured it by an unforgiving frown
any wrong’d her. Wolfe, where'er he fought,
Put so much of his heart into his act,
That his example had a magnet's foree,
And all were swift to follow whom all loved.
Those funs are set. Oh rise fome other such !
Or all that we have left, is empty
Of old atchievements, and despair of new.
Now hoist the fail, and let the streamers float
Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck
With lavender, and fprinkle liquid sweets,
That no rude favour maritime invade
The nose of nice nobility. Breathe soft
Ye clarionets, and softer still
That winds and waters lull’d by magic sounds
May bear us smoothly to the Gallie-lore.
True, we have loft an empire-let it pass.
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 pass-'twas but a trick of state,
A brave man knows no malice, but at once
the injuries of war,
And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace.
And shamed as we have been, to th' very beard
Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved
Too weak for those decisive blows, that once
Insured us maft'ry there, we yet retain
Some small pre-eminence, we justly boast
At least superior jockeyship, and claim
The honors of the turf as all our own.
Go then, well worthy of the praise ye feek,
And show the shame 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
skill To those that need it. Foily is foon learn'd: And, under such preceptors, who can fail !
There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only poets
The shifts and turns, Th'expedients and inventions multiform To which the mind resorts, in chace of terms Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to winT' arrest 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 dispose his copies with such art That each may find its most propitious light, And shine by situation, hardly less, Than by the labor and the skill it cost, Are occupations of the poet's mind So pleasing, and that steal away the thought With such address, from themes of sad import,
That loft in his own musings, 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 seldom such, the hearers of his song.
Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps
Aware of nothing arduous in a task
They never undertook, they little note
His dangers or escapes, and haply find
There least amusement where he found the most.
But is amusement all? ftudious of long,
And yet ambitious not to sing in vain,
I would not trifle merely, though the world
Be loudest in their praise who do no more.
Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay?
may correct a foible, may chastise
The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress,
Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch;
But where are its sublimer trophies found ?
What vice has it fubdued ? whose heart reclaim'd
By rigour, or whom laugh’d into reform?
Alas! Leviathan is not so tamed :
Laugh'd at, he laughs again ; and, stricken hard,
Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales,
That fear no discipline of human hands.
The pulpit therefore (and I name it, fill'd With folemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing) The pulpit (when the far’rist has at last, Strutting and vap'ring in an empty school, Spent all his force and made no proselyte) I say the pulpit (in the sober use Of its legitimate, peculiar pow'rs) Must stand acknowledg’d, while the world shall ftand, The most important and effectual guard, Support and ornament of virtue's cause. There stands the messenger of truth. There stands The legate of the skies. His theme divine, His office sacred, his credentials clear.