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!