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TABLE TALK.

Si te fortè meæ gravis uret sarcina chartæ,

Abjicito.

HOR. Lib. I. Epist. 13.

A. You told me, I remember, glory, built
On selfish principles, is shame and guilt;
The deeds that men admire as half divine,
Stark naught, because corrupt in their design.
Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears
The laurel that the very lightning spares;
Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust,
And eats into his bloody sword like rust.

B. I grant that, men continuing what they are,
Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war.
And never meant the rule should be applied
To him that fights with justice on his side.

Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, Reward his mem'ry, dear to ev'ry muse,

Who, with a courage of unshaken root,
In honour's field advancing his firm foot,
Plants it upon the line that justice draws,
And will prevail or perish in her cause.
'Tis to the virtues of such men, man owes
His portion in the good that heaven bestows.
And, when recording history displays

Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days,
Tells of a few stout hearts that fought and died
Where duty plac'd them, at their country's side;
The man that is not mov'd with what he reads,
That takes not fire at their heroic deeds,
Unworthy of the blessings of the brave,

Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.

But let eternal infamy pursue

The wretch to nought but his ambition true, Who, for the sake of filling with one blast The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste. Think yourself station'd on a tow'ring rock, To see a people scatter'd like a flock,

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