And taints the golden ear. He fprings his mines,
And defolates a nation at a blast.

Forth fteps the fpruce philofopher, and tells
Of homogeneal and discordant springs
And principles; of caufes, 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
Sufpend 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 lefs
Than a capacious refervoir of means

Form'd for his ufe, and ready at his will?

Go, dress thine eyes with eye falve; ask of him,
Or ask of whomfoever he has taught;

And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all.

England, with all thy faults, I love thee stillMy 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 moft part deform’d

With dripping rains, or wither'd by a froft,

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 fublime
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 just disdain
Frown at effeminates, whose very looks
Reflect difhonour on the land I love.
How, in the name of foldiership and fenfe,
Should England profper, when fuch things, as fmoot
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 the Prefume to lay their hand upon the ark

Of her magnificent and awful caufe?

Time was when it was praife and boast 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 thofe 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 counfel-Wolfe upon the lap Of fmiling victory that moment won, And Chatham heart-fick of his country's fhame! They made as many foldiers. Chatham, ftill Confulting England's happiness at home, Secur'd it by an unforgiving frown,

If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, Put fo much of his heart into his act,

That his example had a magnet's force,

And all were fwift to follow whom all lov'd.
Thofe funs are fet. Oh, rife fome other fuch!
Or all that we have left is empty talk

Of old atchievements, and defpair of new.

Now hoift the fail, and let the ftreamers float Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck With lavender, and fprinkle liquid fweets, That no rude favour maritime invade The nofe of nice nobility! Breathe foft, Ye clarionets; and fofter ftill, ye flutes; That winds and waters, lull'd by magic founds, May bear us fmoothly to the Gailic fhore!

True, we have loft an empire-let it pafs.
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 fhrew.
And let that pafs'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, fham'd as we have been, to th' very beard
Brav'd and defied, and in our own fea prov'd
Too weak for thofe decifive blows that once
Enfur'd us maft'ry there, we yet retain
Some fmall pre-eminence; we juftly boast
At least fuperior 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 gen'rous to communicate your fkill
To thofe that need it. Folly is foon learn'd:
And, under fuch preceptors, who can fail?

There is a pleasure in poetic pains

Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, Th' expedients and inventions, multiform,

To which the mind reforts in chace of terms,
Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win-
T'arreft the fleeting images that fill

The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast,
And force them fit till he has pencil'd off
A faithful likeness of the forms he views;
Then to difpofe his copies with fuch art,
That each may find its moft propitious light,
And shine by fituation, hardly lefs
Than by the labour and the skill it cost;
Are occupations of the poet's mind

So pleafing, and that fteal away the thought
With fuch addrefs from themes of fad import,
That, loft in his own mufings, happy man!
He feels th' anxieties of life, denied
Their wonted entertainment, all retire.
Such joys has he that fings. But ah! not such,
Or feldom fuch, the hearers of his fong.
Faftidious, or elfe listlefs, or perhaps
Aware of nothing arduous in a task
They never undertook, they little note
His dangers or escapes, and haply find

There least amusement where he found the most.
But is amusement all? ftudious of fong,
And yet ambitious not to fing in vain,

I would not trifle merely, though the world