The earth fhall shake him out of all his holds,
Or make his houfe his grave: nor fo content,
Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood,
And drown him in her dry and dufty gulphs.
What then!-were they the wicked above all,
And we the righteous, whose fast anchor'd isle
Mov'd not, while their's was rock'd, like a light skiff,
The sport of ev'ry wave? No: none are clear,
And none than we more guilty. But, where all
Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the fhafts
Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark:
May punish, if he please, the less, to warn
The more malignant. If he fpar'd not them,
Tremble and be amaz'd at thine escape,
Far guiltier England, left he spare not thee!
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 refults, into the will
And arbitration wife of the Supreme,
rule all things, and intend
The least 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 furpris'd, and unforeseen
Contingence might alarm him, and disturb
The smooth and equal course of his affairs.
This truth philofophy, though eagle-ey'd
In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks;
And, having found his inftrument, forgets,
Or difregards, or, more prefumptuous ftill,
Denies the pow'r that wields it. God proclaims
His hot difpleafure against foolish men,
That live an atheist 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 fkin,
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 springs his mines,
And defolates a nation at a blast.
Forth steps the spruce philofopher, and tells
Of homogeneal and difcordant springs
And principles; of causes, how they work
By neceffary laws their fure effects;
Of action and re-action. He has found
The fource of the difeafe that nature feels,
And bids the world take heart and banish fear.
Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause
Suspend 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 less
Than a capacious reservoir of means
Form'd for his ufe, and ready at his will?
Go, drefs thine eyes with eye-falve; ask of him,
Or afk of whomfoever 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 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 füblime
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 difdain
Frown at effeminates, whofe very looks
Reflect dishonour on the land I love.
How, in the name of foldiership and sense,
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 fhould fight; when fuch as these Prefume to lay their hand upon the ark
Of her magnificent and awful cause?
Time was when it was praise and boaft 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 those 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
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