Gone with the refluent wave into the deep-
A prince with half his people! Ancient tow'rs,
And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes
Where beauty oft and letter'd worth consume
Life in the unproductive shades of death,
Fall prone the pale inhabitants come forth,
And, happy in their unforeseen release
From all the rigours of restraint, enioy

The terrours of the day that sets the free. Who, then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast

Freedom! whom they that lose thee so regret,
That e'en a judgment, making way for thee,
Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake?
Such evil Sin hath wrought; and such a flame
Kindled in Heav'n, that it burns down to Earth,
And in the furious inquest that it makes

On God's behalf, lays waste his fairest works.
The very elements, though each be meant
The minister of man, to serve his wants,
Conspire against him. With his breath he draws
A plague into his blood; and cannot use
Life's necessary means, but he must die.
Storms rise t' o'erwhelm him; or if stormy winds
Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise,
And, needing none assistance of the storm,
Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there
The carth shall shake him out of all his holds,
Or make his house his grave: nor so content,
Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood,
And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs.

What then!-were they the wicked above all,

And we the righteous, whose fast-anchor'd isle Mov'd not, while theirs was rock,d, like a light skiff,

The sport of every 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 choose his mark:
May punish, if he please, the less, to warn
The more malignant. If he spar'd not them,
Tremble and be amaz'd at thine escape,
Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee!
Happy the man, who sees a God employ'd
In all the good and ill that checker life!
Resolving all events, with their effects
And manifold results, into the will
And arbitration wise of the Supreme.
Did not his eye rule all things, and intend
The least of our concerns; (since from the least
The greatest oft originate ;) could chance
Find place in his dominion, or dispose
One lawless particle to thwart his plan;
Then God might be surpris'd, and unforeseen
Contingence might alarm him, and disturb
The smooth and equal course of his affairs.
This true Philosophy, though eagle-ey'd
In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks;
And, having found his instrument, forgets,
Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still,
Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims
His hot displeasure against foolish men,
That live an atheist life; involves the Heavens
In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds,

And gives them all their fury; bids a plague
Kindle a fiery bile upon the skin,

And putrefy the breath of blooming Health.
He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend
Blows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips,
And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines,
And desolates a nation at a blast.

Forth steps the spruce Philosopher, and tells
Of homogeneal and discordant springs,
And principles; of causes how they work
By necessary laws their sure effects

Of action and reaction: he has found
The source of the disease that nature feels,
And bids the world take heart and banish fear.
Thou fool will thy discov'ry of the cause
Suspend th' effect, or heal it? Has not God
Still wrought by means since first he made the
world?

And did he not of old employ his means
To drown it? What is his creation less,
Than a capacious reservoir of means,
Form'd for his use, and ready at his will?
Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve; ask of Him
Or ask of whomesoever 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 most part deform'd

With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France
With all her vines: nor for Ausonia's groves
Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs.
To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime
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 sorrows, 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, whose very looks
Reflect dishonour on the land I love.
How in the name of soldiership and sense,
Should England prosper, when such things, as
smooth

And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er
With odours, and as profligate as sweet;
Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
And love when they should fight: when such
as these

Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
Of her magnificent and awful cause;

Time was when it was praise and boast enough
In every clime, and travel where we might,
That we were born her children. Praise enough
Th fill th' ambition of a private man

That Chatham's language was his mother-tongue, And Wolf's great name compatriot with his own. Farewell those honours, and farewell with them The hope of such 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-sick of his country's shame!
They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still
Consulting England's happiness at home,
Secur'd it by an unforgiving frown,

If 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 force,

And all were swift to follow whom all lov'd.
Those suns are set. O rise some other such !
Or all that we have left is empty talk
Of old achievements and despair of new.

Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float
Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck
With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets,
That no rude savour maritime invade
The nose of nice nobility! Breathe soft,
Ye clarionets; and softer still, ye flutes;
That winds and waters, lull'd by magick sounds
May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore.
True, we have lost 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 shrew.
And let that pass-'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 sham'd as we have been, to th' very beard
Brav'd and defied, and in our own sea prov'd