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And arbitration wise of the Supreme.
Did not his eye rule all things, and intend
The least of our concerns (fince 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 surprized, and unforeseen
Contingence might alarm him, and disturb
The smooth and equal course of his affairs.
This truth, philofophy, though eagle-eyed
In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks,
And having found his instrument, forgets
Or disregards, or more presumptuous still
Denies the pow'r that wields it. God proclaims
His hot displeasure against foolish men
That live an atheist life. Involves the heav'n
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.

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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 discov'ry of the cause
Suspend th' 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, alk of him,

Or ask of whomsoever he has taught,
And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all.

England, with all thy faults, I love thee ftill 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, deformid 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 bow'rs. To shake thy fenate, and from heights sublime Of patriot eloquence to Aash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my talk 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

Frown at effeminates, whose very looks
Reflect dishonor 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 odors, and as profligate as sweet,
Who fell 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 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 honors, 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

Of

Of smiling victory that moment won,
And Chatham, heart-fick of his country's fhame,
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 fet, Oh rise fome other such !
Or all that we have left, is empty talk
Of old atchievements, and despair of new,

Now hoist the fail, and let the streamers float Upon the wanton breezes, Strew the deck With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, That no rude favour maritime invade

The nose of nice nobility. Breathe soft
Ye clarionets, and softer ftill ye flutes,
That winds and waters lull’d by magic sounds

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