All are his instruments; each form of war,
What burns at home, or threatens from afar,
Nature in arms, her elements at strife,
The storms that overset the joys of life,
Are but his rods to scourge a guilty land,
And waste it at the bidding of his hand.
He gives the word, and mutiny soon roars
In all her gates, and shakes her distant shores,
The standards of all nations are unfurl'd,

She has one foe, and that one foe, the world.
And if he doom that people with a frown,

And mark them with a seal of wrath, press'd down,
Obduracy takes place; callous and tough

The reprobated race grows judgment-proof:

Earth shakes beneath them, and heaven roars above,
But nothing scares them from the course they love;
To the lascivious pipe and wanton song,
That charm down fear, they frolic it along,

With mad rapidity and unconcern,

Down to the gulf from which is no return.
They trust in navies and their navies fail,
God's curse can cast away ten thousand sail;
They trust in armies, and their courage dies,
In wisdom, wealth, in fortune, and in lies;
But all they trust in, withers, as it must,
When He commands in whom they place no trust.
Vengeance at last pours down upon their coast,
A long despised, but now victorious host,
Tyranny sends the chain that must abridge
The noble sweep of all their privilege,
Gives liberty the last, the mortal shock,
Slips the slave's collar on, and snaps the lock.

A. Such lofty strains embellish what you teach,

Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach?

B. I know the mind that feels indeed the fire The muse imparts, and can command the lyre, Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal, Whate'er the theme, that others never feel.

If human woes her soft attention claim,
A tender sympathy pervades the frame,
She pours a sensibility divine

Along the nerve of ev'ry feeling line.
But if a deed not tamely to be borne,
Fire indignation and a sense of scorn,

The strings are swept with such a power, so loud,
The storm of music shakes the astonish'd crowd,
So when remote futurity is brought

Before the keen inquiry of her thought,

A terrible sagacity informs

The poet's heart, he looks to distant storms,
He hears the thunder ere the tempest lowers,

And, arm'd with strength surpassing human powers,
Seizes events as yet unknown to man,

And darts his soul into the dawning plan.

Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name

Of prophet and of poet was the same,

Hence British poets too the priesthood shared,
And ev'ry hallow'd druid was a bard.
But no prophetic fires to me belong,

I play with syllables, and sport in song.

A. At Westminster, where little poets strive
To set a distich upon six and five,

Where discipline helps opening buds of sense,
And makes his pupils proud with silver pence,
I was a poet too-but modern taste

Is so refined, and delicate, and chaste,
That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms,
Without a creamy smoothness has no charms.
Thus, all success depending on an ear,
And thinking I might purchase it too dear,
If sentiment were sacrificed to sound,
And truth cut short to make a period round,
I judged a man of sense could scarce do worse,
Than caper in the morris-dance of verse.

B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit,
And some wits flag through fear of losing it.

Give me the line, that ploughs its stately course
Like a proud swan, conquering the stream by force,
That like some cottage beauty strikes the heart,
Quite unindebted to the tricks of art.

When labour and when dulness, club in hand,
Like the two figures at St Dunstan's stand,
Beating alternately, in measured time,
The clock-work tintinnabulum of rhyme,
Exact and regular the sounds will be,

But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me.
From him who rears a poem lank and long,
To him who strains his all into a song,
Perhaps some bonny Caledonian air,

All birks and braes, though he was never there,
Or having whelp'd a prologue with great pains,
Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains;
A prologue interdash'd with many a stroke,
An art contrived to advertise a joke,
So that the jest is clearly to be seen,
Not in the words-but in the gap between ;
Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,
The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.

To dally much with subjects mean and low,
Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it so.
Neglected talents rust into decay,

And ev'ry effort ends in push-pin play.

The man that means success, should soar above

A soldier's feather, or a lady's glove,

Else, summoning the muse to such a theme,
The fruit of all her labour is whipt-cream.

As if an eagle flew aloft, and then

Stoop'd from his highest pitch to pounce a wren;
As if the poet purposing to wed,

Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread.
Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appear'd,
And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard,
To carry nature lengths unknown before,
To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more.

Thus genius rose and set at order'd times,
And shot a day-spring into distant climes,
Ennobling ev'ry region that he chose,
He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose,

And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass'd,
Emerged all splendour in our isle at last.
Thus lovely Halcyons dive into the main,
Then show far off their shining plumes again.
A. Is genius only found in epic lays?
Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praise.
Make their heroic pow'rs your own at once,
Or candidly confess yourself a dunce.

B. These were the chief, each interval of night
Was graced with many an undulating light;
In less illustrious bards his beauty shone
A meteor, or a star, in these, the sun.

The nightingale may claim the topmost bough, While the poor grasshopper must chirp below. Like him unnoticed, I, and such as I, Spread little wings, and rather skip than fly, Perch'd on the meagre produce of the land, An ell or two of prospect we command, But never peep beyond the thorny bound, Or oaken fence that hems the paddock round. In Eden, ere yet innocence of heart Had faded, poetry was not an art; Language above all teaching, or if taught, Only by gratitude and glowing thought, Elegant as simplicity, and warm As ecstasy, unmanacled by form, Not prompted, as in our degen'rate days, By low ambition and the thirst of praise, Was natural as is the flowing stream, And yet magnificent, a God the theme. That theme on earth exhausted, though above 'Tis found as everlasting as his love,

Man lavish'd all his thoughts on human things, The feats of heroes and the wrath of kings,

But still, while virtue kindled his delight,
The song was moral, and so far was right.
'Twas thus till luxury seduced the mind,
To joys less innocent, as less refined,
Then genius danced a bacchanal, he crown'd
The brimming goblet, seized the thyrsus, bound
His brows with ivy, rush'd into the field
Of wild imagination, and there reel'd
The victim of his own lascivious fires,

And dizzy with delight, profaned the sacred wires.
Anacreon, Horace, play'd in Greece and Rome
This Bedlam part; and others nearer home.

When Cromwell fought for pow'r, and while he reign'd,
The proud protector of the pow'r he gain'd,
Religion harsh, intolerant, austere,
Parent of manners like herself severe,
Drew a rough copy of the Christian face

Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace;
The dark and sullen humour of the time
Judged ev'ry effort of the muse a crime;
Verse in the finest mould of fancy cast,
Was lumber in an age so void of taste:

But when the second Charles assumed the sway,
And arts revived beneath a softer day,
Then, like a bow long forced into a curve,

The mind released from too constrain'd a nerve,
Flew to its first position with a spring

That made the vaulted roofs of pleasure ring.
His court, the dissolute and hateful school
Of wantonness, where vice was taught by rule,
Swarm'd with a scribbling herd, as deep inlaid
With brutal lust as ever Circe made.

From these a long succession, in the rage
Of rank obscenity debauch'd their age,
Nor ceased, till ever anxious to redress
Th' abuses of her sacred charge, the press,
The muse instructed a well-nurtured train
Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain,