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 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 To fill the 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 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! They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still Consulting England's happiness at home,
Secured 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 loved. Those suns are set. Oh, 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 magic 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, shamed as we have been, to the very beard Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved Too weak for those decisive blows that once Ensured us mastery there, we yet retain Some small preeminence; we justly boast At least superior jockeyship, and claim The honours of the turf as all our own! Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, And show the shame ye might conceal at home In foreign eyes!-be grooms, and win the plate Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!— 'Tis generous to communicate your skill To those that need it! Folly is soon learn'd: And under such preceptors who can fail! There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, The expedients and inventions multiform,
To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win- To arrest the fleeting images that fill The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, And force them sit till he has pencil'd off A faithful likeness of the forms he views; Then to dispose his copies with such art, That each may find its most propitious light, And shine by situation, hardly less
Than by the labour and the skill it cost; Are occupations of the poet's mind
So pleasing, and that steal away the thought With such address from themes of sad import, That, lost in his own musings, happy man! He feels the anxieties of life, denied
Their wonted entertainment, all retire.
Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such, Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps Aware of nothing arduous in a task They never undertook, they little note His dangers or escapes, and haply find
Their least amusement where he found the most. But is amusement all? Studious of song, And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, I would not trifle merely, though the world Be loudest in their praise who do no more. Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay?
may correct a foible, may chastise
The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, Retrench a swordblade, or displace a patch;
But where are its sublimer trophies found? What vice has it subdued? whose heart reclaim'd By rigour? or whom laugh'd into reform? Alas! Leviathan is not so tamed:
Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and stricken hard, Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, That fear no discipline of human hands.
The pulpit, therefore (and I name it fill'd With solemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing)— The pulpit (when the satirist has at last, Strutting and vapouring in an empty school, Spent all his force, and made no proselyte)—
say the pulpit (in the sober use
Of its legitimate, peculiar powers)
Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand,
The most important and effectual guard, Support, and ornament of Virtue's cause.
There stands the messenger of truth: there stands The legate of the skies!-His theme divine, His office sacred, his credentials clear.
By him the violated law speaks out
Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. He stablishes the strong, restores the weak, Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart,
And, arm'd himself in panoply complete
Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule Of holy discipline, to glorious war
The sacramental host of God's elect!
Are all such teachers?-would to heaven all were! But hark-the doctor's voice!-fast wedged between
Two empirics he stands, and with swoln cheeks Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far Than all invective is his bold harangue, While through that public organ of report He hails the clergy; and, defying shame, Announces to the world his own and theirs! He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd, And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone, And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer The adagio and andante it demands. He grinds divinity of other days
Down into modern use; transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.
Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware? O, name it not in Gath!-it cannot be,
That grave and learned clerks should need such aid. He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, Assuming thus a rank unknown before- Grand caterer and drynurse of the church!
I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life,
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