For He has touch'd them. From the extremest point Of elevation down into the abyss,
His wrath is busy and his frown is felt.
The rocks fall headlong and the valleys rise; The rivers die into offensive pools,
And charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross And mortal nuisance into all the air.
What solid was, by transformation strange Grows fluid; and the fixt and rooted earth Tormented into billows heaves and swells, Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs And agonies of human and of brute Multitudes, fugitive on every side, And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene Migrates uplifted, and with all its soil Alighting in far distant fields, finds out A new possessor, and survives the change. Ocean has caught the frenzy, and upwrought To an enormous and o'erbearing height, Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge, Possess'd an inland scene. Where now the throng That press'd the beach, and hasty to depart Look'd to the sea for safety? They are gone, Gone with the refluent wave into the deep, A prince with half his people. Ancient towers, 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, enjoy The terrors of the day that sets them free. Who then that has thee, would not hold thee fast, Freedom! whom they that lose thee, so regret, That even a judgement making way for thee, Seems in their eyes, a mercy, for thy sake.
Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flame Kindled in heaven, 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 to 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. 145 The earth 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 Moved 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 chuse his mark, May punish, if he please, the less, to warn The more malignant. If he spared not them, Tremble and be amazed at thine escape, Far guiltier England! lest he spare not thee. Happy the man who sees a God employed In all the good and ill that checquer 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 surprised, and unforeseen. Contingence might alarm him, and disturb The smooth and equal course of his affairs. This truth, philosophy, though eagle-eyed 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 heaven In tempests, quits his grasp 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 shrivel'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 re-action. He has found The source of the disease that nature feels, And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause Suspend the 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 whomsoever he has taught,
And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. 205 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, deformed With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bowers. To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime
11 Go, teach eternal wisdom how to rule, Then drop into thyself and be a fool.
Pope. Essay on Man, ii. 29.
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 thunderer 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 essenced 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 aweful 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 235 To fill the ambition of a private man,
That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, And Wolfe's 12 great name compatriot with his own. Farewell those honours, and farewell with them The hope of such hereafter. They have fallen 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.
12 Cowper wrote from his own recollection here. In one of his letters he says, "Nothing could express my rapture when Wolfe made the conquest of Quebec."
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