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His Grace who fmarts, may bellow if he please,
But must I bellow too, who fit at ease?
By custom fafe, the poet's numbers flow,
Free as the light and air fome years ago.
No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains
To tax our labours, and excise our brains.
Burthens like thefe vile earthly buildings bear,
No tribute's laid on caftles in the air.
Let then the flames of war deftructive reign,
And England's terrors awe imperious Spain;
Let ev'ry venal clan and neutral tribe
Learn to receive conditions, not prescribe;
Let each new year call loud for new fupplies,
And tax on tax with double burthens rife :
Exempt we fit, by no rude cares oppreft,
And, having little, are with little bleft.
All real ills in dark oblivion lie,
And joys, by fancy form'd, their place fupply,
Night's laughing hours unheeded flip away,
Nor one dull thought foretells th' approach of Day.
Thus have we liv'd,and whilft the fates afford
Plain plenty to fupply the frugal board,
Whilft Mirth with Decency his lovely bride,
And Wine's gay God, with Temp'rance by his fide,
Their welcome vifit pay; whilft Health attends
The narrow circle of our chofen friends,
Whilft frank Good-Humour confecrates the treat,
And Woman makes fociety complete,
Thus will we live, tho' in our teeth are hurl'd
Thofe hackney ftrumpets, Prudence and the World.
Prudence, of old a facred term, imply'd
Virtue, with godlike Wisdom for her guide,
But now in general ufe is known to mean
The ftalking-horse of vice, and folly's screen.
The fenfe perverted we retain the name,
Hypocrify and Prudence are the fame.
A Tutor once, more read in men than books,
A kind of crafty knowledge in his looks,
Demurely fly, with high preferment bleft,
His fav'rite pupil in these words addreffed :
Would't thou, my son, be wife and virtuous deem'd,
By all mankind a prodigy esteem'd?
Be this thy rule; be what men prudent call;
Prudence, almighty Prudence, gives thee all.
Keep up appearances, there lies the test,
The world will give thee credit for the reft.
Outward be fair, however foul within ;
Sin if thou wilt, but then in fecret fin.
This maxim's into common favour grown,
Vice is no longer vice, unless 'tis known.
Virtue indeed may barefac'd take the field;
But vice is virtue when 'tis well conceal'd.
Should raging paffions drive thee to a whore,
Let Prudence lead thee to a poftern door;
Stay out all night, but take efpecial care
That Prudence bring thee back to early prayer.
As one with watching and with study faint,
Reel in a drunkard, and reel out a faint.
Whilst Virtue feeks in vain the wifh'd-for prize,
Becaufe, difdaining ill, fhe hates disguise;
Because the frankly pours forth all her store,
Seems what the is, and fcorns to pafs for more?
Well-be it fo-let vile diffemblers hold
Unenvy'd pow'r, and boast their dear-bought gold,
Me neither pow'r fhall tempt, nor thirst of pelf,
To flatter others or deny myself;
Might the whole world be plac'd within my span,
I would not be that Thing, that Prudent Man.
With joy the youth this useful lesson heard, And in his mem❜ry ftor'd each precious word, Successfully purfu'd the plan, and now, "Room for my Lord,-Virtue ftand by and bow."
And is this all-is this the worldings art, To mask, but not mend a vicious heart? Shall lukewarm caution and demeanor grave For wife and good stamp ev'ry fupple knave? Shall wretches whom no real virtue warms, Gild fair their names and ftates with empty forms,
What, cries Sir Pliant, would you then oppofe
Yourself, alone, against an host of foes?
Let not conceit, and peevish luft to rail,
Above all fenfe of intereft prevail.
Throw off for fhame this petulance of wit,
Be wife, be modeft, and for once fubmit:
Too hard the task 'against multitudes to fight,
You must be wrong, the World is in the right.
What is this World? A term which men have got
To fignify, not one in ten knows what ;
A term, which with no more precifion paffes
To point out herds of men than herds of affes;
In common ufe no more it means, we find,
Than many fools in fame opinions join'd.
Can numbers then change Nature's stated laws?
Can numbers make the worfe the better caufe?
Vice must be vice, virtue be virtue ftill,
Tho' thousands rail at good and practice ill.
Wouldst thou defend the Gaul's deftructive rage
Because vaft nations on his part engage?
Tho' to fupport the rebel Cæfar's caufe
Tumultuous legions arm against the laws,
Tho' Scandal would our patriot's name impeach,
And rails at virtues which the cannot reach,
What honeft man but would with joy fubmit
To bleed with Cato, and retire with PITT?
Stedfaft and true to Virtue's facred laws,
Unmov'd by vulgar cenfure or applaufe,
Let the World talk, my friend; that World we
Which calls us guilty, cannot make us fo.
Unaw'd by numbers, follo Nature's plan,
Affert the rights, or quit the name of Man.
Confider well, weigh ftrictly right and wrong;
Refolve not quick, but once refolv'd be ftrong.
In fpite of dullness, and in spite of wit,
If to thyfelf thou canft thyfelf acquit,
Rather ftand up affur'd with confcious pride
Alone, than err with millions on thy fide.
JOHN WILKES, ESQ
HEN Cupid firft inftructs his darts to fly From the fly corner of fome cook-maid's The ftripling raw, juft enter'd in his teens, Receives the wound, and wonders what it means;
His heart like dripping, melts, and new defire
Within him ftirs, each time the ftirs the fire;
Trembling and blushing he the fair one views,
And fain would speak, but can't-without a Mufe.
So to the facred mount he takes his way,
Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay,
His oaten reed to rural ditties frames,
To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills proclaims,
In fimpleft notes, and all unpolish'd strains,
The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of fwains.
Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore,
In ruftic weeds--a cook-maid now no more-
Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies,
Green mofs her couch; her canopy the skies.
From aromatic fhrubs the roguish gale
Steals young perfumes, and wafts them thro' the vale.
The youth, turn'd swain, and skill'd in ruftic lays,
Faft by her fide his am'rous defcant plays.
Herds lowe, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens scream,
And the full chorus dies a-down the stream.
The ftreams, with mufic freighted, as they pafs,
Prefent the fair Lardella with a glafs,
And Zephyr, to compleat the love-fick plan,
Waves his light wings, and ferves her for a fan.
But, when maturer Judgment takes the lead,
Thefe childish toys on Reason's altar bleed ;
Form'd after fome great man, whose name breeds awe,
Whofe ev'ry fentence Fashion makes a law,
Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears,
And founds his merit on our fervile fears;
Then we difcard the workings of the heart,
And Nature's banish'd by mechanic Art;
Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown;
Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown.
Then Oftentation marches to our aid,
And letter'd Pride ftalks forth in full parade;
Beneath their care behold the work refine,
Pointed each fentence, polifh'd ev'ry line:
Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear
The robes of Ancients with a Modern air,
Nonfenfe with claffic ornaments is grac'd,
And paffes current with the ftamp of Tafte.
Then the rude Theocrite is ranfack'd o'er, And courtly Maro call'd from Mincio's fhore; Sicilian Mufes on our mountains roam, Easy and free as if they were at home: Nymphs, Naiads, Nereids, Dryads, Satyrs, Fauns, Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns; Flow'rs, which once flourish'd fair in Greece and
More fair revive in Englands meads to bloom;
Skies without cloud exotic funs adorn ;
And roses blush, but blush without a thorn;
Landscapes unknown to dowdy Nature, rife,
And new creations ftrike our wond'ring eyes.
For bards like thefe, who neither fing nor fay,
Grave without thought, and without feeling gay,
Whose numbers in one even tenor flow,
Attun'd to pleasure, and attun'd to woe,
Who, if plain Common Sense her vifit pays,
And mars one couplet in their happy lays,
As at fome ghost affrighted, start and stare,
And afk the meaning of her coming there;
For bards like these a wreath fhall Mafon bring,
Lin'd with the fofteft down of Folly's wing;
In Love's Pagoda fhall they ever doze,
And Gifbal kindly rock them to repofe;
My lord to letters as to faith most true-
At once their patron and example too-
Shall quaintly fashion his love-labour'd dreams,
Sigh with fad winds, and weep with weeping ftreams,
Curious in grief, (for real grief, we know,
Is curious to dress up the tale of woe)
From the green umbrage of fome Druid's feat,
Shall his own works in his own way repeat.
Me whom no Mufe of heav'nly birth infpires,
No judgment tempers when rash genius fires;
Who boast no merit but mere knack of rime,
Short gleams of fenfe, and fatire out of time,
Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads
By prattling ftreams o'er flow'r-empurpled meads ;
Who often, but without fuccefs, have pray'd
For apt Alliteration's artful aid;
Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill,
Coin fine new epithets which mean no ill;
Me, thus uncouth, thus ev'ry way unfit
For pacing poefy, and ambling wit,
Tafte with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongst the lowest of her favour'd race.
Thou, Nature, art my goddess-to thy law
Myfelf I dedicate.-Hence flavish awe
Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rules,
Impos'd at firft, and fince obferv'd by fools.
Hence thofe vile tricks which mar fair Nature's hue,
And bring the fober matron forth to view,
With all that artificial tawdry glare,
Which Virtue fcorns, and none but ftrumpets wear.
Sick of those pomps, thofe vanities that wafte
Of toil, which critics now mistake for tafte,
Of falfe refinements fick, and labour'd ease,
Which Art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please,
By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) fubdu'd,
However plain her drefs, and 'haviour rude,
To northern climes my happier course I steer,
Climes where the goddefs reigns throughout the
Where, undisturb'd by Art's rebellious plan,
She rules the loyal laird, and faithful clan.
To that rare foil, where virtues cluft'ring grow, What mighty bleffings doth not England owe? What waggon-loads of courage, wealth and fenfe, Doth each revolving day import from thence? To us the gives, difinterefted friend, Faith without fraud, and Stuarts without end. When we profperity's rich trappings wear, Come not her gen'rous fons and take a fhare? And if, by fome disastrous turn of fate, Change fhould enfue, and ruin feize the state, Shall we not find fafe in that hallow'd ground, Such refuge as the Holy Martyr found ?
Nor lefs our debt in Science, tho' deny'd By the weak flaves of prejudice and pride. Thence came the Ramfays, names of worthy note, Of whom one paints, as well as t'other wrote; Thence, Home, difbanded from the fons of pray'r For loving plays, tho' no dull Dean was there; Thence iffued forth, at great Macpherson's call, That old, new, epic paftoral, Fingal ; Thence Malloch, friend alike of Church and State, Of Chrift and Liberty, by grateful Fate Rais'd to rewards which, in a pious reign, All darling infidels fhould seek in vain ; Thence fimple bards, by fimple prudence taught, To this wife town by fimple patrons brought,
In fimple manner utter fimple lays,
And take, with fimple penfions, fimple praise.
Waft me fome Mufe to Tweed's infpiring ftream,
Where all the little loves and graces dream,
Where flowly winding the dull waters creep,
And feem themselves to own the power of fleep,
Where on the furface lead, like feathers, swims,
There let me bathe my yet unhallow'd limbs,
As once a Syrian bath'd in Jordan's flood,
Wafh off my native ftains, correct that blood
Which mutinies at call of English pride,
And, deaf to prudence, rolls a patriot tide.
From folemn thought which overhangs the brow Of patriot care, when things are-God knows how;
From nice trim points, where Honour, flave to
In compliment to Folly, plays the fool;
From those gay scenes where Mirth exalts his pow'r,
And eafy Humour wings the laughing hour;
From those soft better moments, when defire
Beats high, and all the world of man's on fire,
When mutual ardours of the melting fair
More than repay us for whole years of care,
At friendship's fummons will my Wilkes retreat,
And fee, once feen before, that ancient feat,
That ancient feat, where majesty display'd
Her enfigns, long before the world was made!
Mean narrow maxims, which enflave mankind,
Ne'er from its bias warp thy fettled mind.
Not dup'd by party, nor opinion's flave,
Thofe faculties which bounteous Nature gave,
Thy honeft spirit into practice brings,
If, mean in want, and infolent in pow'r,
They only fawn'd more furely to devour,
Rous'd by fuch wrongs fhould Reafon take alarm,
And e'en the Mufe for public fafety arm;
But if they own ingenious Virtue's sway,
And follow where true Honour points the way,
If they revere the hand by which they're fed,
And blefs the donors for their daily bread,
Or by vaft debts of higher import bound,
Are always humble, always grateful found,
If they, directed by Paul's holy pen,
Become difcreetly all things to all men,
That all men may become all things to them,
Envy may hate, but Juftice can't condemn.
"Into our places, ftates, and beds they creep ;"
They've fenfe to get, what we want fenfe to
Once, be the hour accurs'd, accurs'd the place,
I ventur'd to blafpheme the chofen race.
Into thofe traps, which men call'd Patriots laid,
By fpecious arts unwarily betray'd.
Madly I leagu'd against that facred earth,
Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth.
But fhall I meanly Error's path pursue,
When heavenly Truth prefents her friendly clue,
Once plung'd in ill, fhall I go farther in?
To make the oath was rafh, to keep it, fin.
Backward I tread the paths I trod before,
And calm reflection hates what paffion swore.
Converted, (bleffed are the fouls which know
Thofe pleasures which from true converfion flow,
Whether to reafon, who now rules my breast,
Or to pure faith, like Lyttleton and West)
Nor courts the fmile, nor dreads the frowns of Patt crimes to expiate, be my prefent aim
Let rude licentious Englishmen comply
To raife new trophies to the Scottish name,
To make (what can the proudest Mufe do more?)
With tumult's voice, and curfe they know not E'en Faction's fons her brighter worth adore,
Unwilling to condemn, thy foul difdains
To wear vile faction's arbitrary chains,
And strictly weighs, in apprehenfion clear,
Things as they are, and not as they appear.
With thee Good-Humour tempers lively Wit,
Enthron'd with Judgment, Candour loves to fit,
And Nature gave thee, open to distress,
A heart to pity, and a hand to blefs.
Oft have I heard thee mourn the wretched lot
Of the poor, mean, defpis'd, infulted Scot,
Who, might calm reafon credit idle tales,
By rancour forg'd where prejudice prevails,
Or ftarves at home, or practifes, thro' fear
Of starving, arts which damn all confcience here.
When Scribblers, to the charge by int'reft led,
The fierce North-Briton foaming at their head,
Pour forth invectives, deaf to candour's call,
And injur'd by one alien, rail at all;
On Northern Pisgah when they take their stand,
To mark the weakness of that Holy Land,
With needless truths their libels to adorn,
And hang a nation up to public fcorn,
Thy gen'rous foul condemns the frantic rage,
And hates the faithful but ill-natur'd page.
The Scots are poor, cries furly English pride;
True is the charge, nor by themselves deny'd,
Are they not then in ftricteft reafon clear,
Who wifely come to mend their fortunes here?
If by low fupple arts fuccessful grown,
They fapp'd our vigour to increase their own
To make her glories ftamp'd with honeft rimes,
In fulleft tide roll down to latest times.
"Prefumptuous wretch! and fhall a Mufe like
"An English Mufe, the meanest of the nine,
"Attempt a theme like this? Can her weak
"Expect indulgence from the mighty Thane ?
Should he from toils of government retire,
"And for a moment fan the poet's fire,
"Should he, of fciences the moral friend,
"Each curious, each important fearch fufpend,
"Leave unaffifted Hill of herbs to tell,
"And all the wonders of a cockle-fhell,
"Having the Lord's good grace before his eyes,
"Would not the Home ftep forth, and gain the
"Or if this wreath of honour might adorn
"The humble brows of one in England born,
"Prefumptuous ftill thy daring must appear;
"Vain all thy tow'ring hopes, whilst I am here."
Thus fpake a form, by filken fimile and tone
Dull and unvaried, for the Laureat known.
Folly's chief friend, Decorum's eldest fon,
In ev'ry party found and yet of none.
This airy fubftance, this fubftantial fhade,
Abah'd I heard, and with refpect obey'd.
From themes too lofty for a bard fo mean,
Discretion beckons to an humbler fcene.
The reftlefs fever of ambition laid,
Calm I retire, and feek the fylvan fhade.
Now be the Mufe difrob'd of all her pride,
Be all the glare of verfe by Truth fupplied,
And if plain Nature pours a fimple strain,
Which Bute may praife, and Offian not disdain,
Offian, fublimeft, fimpleft bard of all,
Whom English infidels Macpherson call,
Then round my head shall honour's enfigns wave,
And penfions mark me for a willing flave.
Two boys, whofe birth beyond all queftion fprings From great and glorious, tho' forgotten, kings, Shepherds of Scottish lineage, born and bred On the fame bleak and barren mountain's head, By niggard Nature doom'd on the fame rocks To fpin out life, and starve themselves and flocks, Fresh as the morning, which, enrob'd in mist, The mountain's top with usual dulness kifs'd, Jockey and Sawney to their labours rofe; Soon clad I ween, where Nature needs no cloaths, Where, from their youth enur'd to winter-skies, Drefs and her vain refinements they despise.
Jockey, whofe manly high-bon'd cheeks to crown With freckles fpotted flam'd the golden down, With mikle art could on the bagpipes play, E'en from the rifing to the fetting day; Sawney as long without remorfe could bawl Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal. Oft at his ftrains, all natural tho' rude, The Highland lafs forgot her want of food, And, whilft the scratch'd her lover into reft, Sunk pleas'd, tho' hungry, on her Sawney's breast.
Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen, Earth, clad in ruffet, fcorn'd the lively green. The plague of locufts they fecure defy, For in three hours a grafhopper must die. No living thing, whate'er its food, feafts there, But the Cameleon, who can feaft on air. No birds, except as birds of paffage, flew, No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo. No ftreams as amber fmooth, as amber clear, Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here. Rebellion's fpring, which through the country ran, Furnish'd with bitter draughts, the steady clan. No flow'rs embalm'd the air, but one white rofe, Which on the 10th of June by inftinct blows, By inftinct blows at morn, and, when the shades Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades.
One, and but one poor folitary cave, Too fparing of her favours, Nature gave; That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!) Shelter at once for man and beaft Supplied. Their fnares without entangling briers spread, And thistles, arm'd against the invader's head. Stood in close ranks all entrance to oppose, Thiftles now held more precious than the rose. All creatures which, on Nature's earliest plan, Were form'd to loath, and to be loath'd by man, Which ow'd their birth to naftiness and spite, Deadly to touch, and hateful to the fight, Creatures, which when admitted in the ark, Their Saviour thunn'd, and rankled in the dark, Found place within: marking her noisome road With poifon's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad'; There webs were spread of more than common fize, And half-ftarv'd fpiders prey'd on half-ftarv'd flies; In queft of food, efts ftrove in vain to crawl; Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, fmear'd the flimy wall;
The cave around with hiffing ferpents rung 3
On the damp roof unhealthy vapours hung;
And FAMINE, by her children always known,
As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne.
Here, for the fullen fky was overcaft,
And fummer fhrunk beneath a wint'ry blaft,
A native blaft, which, arm'd with hail and rain,
Beat unrelenting on the naked fwin,
The boys for fhelter made; behind the sheep
Of which thofe fhepherds every day take keep,
Sickly crept on, and with complainings rude,
On Nature feem'd to call, and bleat for food.
Sith to this cave, by tempeft, we're confin'da And within ken our flocks, under the wind, Safe from the pelting of this perilous storm, Are laid emong yon thistles dry and warm, What, Sawney, if by fhepherd's art we try To mock the rigour of this cruel fky? What if we tune fome merry roundelay ? Well doft thou fing, nor ill doth Jockey play.
Ah, Jockey, ill advifes thou, I wis, To think of fongs at fuch a time as this. Sooner fhall herbage crown these barren rocks, Sooner shall fleeces cloath these ragged flocks, Sooner fhall want feize fhepherds of the fouth, And we forget to live from hand to mouth, Than Sawney, out of feafon, fhall impart The fongs of gladness with an aching heart.
Still have I known thee for a filly fwain ;
Of things past help, what boots it to complain?
Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's fpite;
No fky is heavy, if the heart be light:
Patience is forrow's falve; what can't be cur'd,
So Donald right arceds, must be endur'd.
Full filly fwain, I wot, is Jockey now; How didit thou bearthy Maggy's falfhood? how, When with a foreign loon the stole away, Did'st thou forfwear thy pipe and fhepherd's lay? Where was thy boafted wifdom then, when I Applied thofe proverbs, which you now apply?
O fhe was bonny! All the Highlands round Was there a rival to my Maggy found! More precious (tho' that precious is to all) Than the rare med'cine which we Brimstone call, Or that choice plant, fo grateful to the nofe, Which in I know not what far country grows, Was Maggy unto me; dear do I rue, A lafs fo fair fhould ever prove untrue.
Whether with pipe or fong to charm the ear, Thro' all the land did Jamie find a peer? Curs'd be that year by ev'ry honeft Scot, And in the fhepherd's calendar forgot, That fatal year, when Jamie, haplefs fwain, In evil hour forfook the peaceful plain. Jamie, when our young Laird difcreetly fled, Was feiz'd and hang'd till he was dead, dead,
Full forely may we all lament that day;
For all were lofers in the deadly fray.
Five brothers had 1, on the Scottish plains,
Well dost thou know were none more hopeful fwains;
Five brothers there I loft, in manhood's pride,
Two in the field, and three on gibbets died :
Ah! filly fwains, to follow war's alarms!
Ah! what hath fhepherd's life to do with arms!
There, like the Sons of Ifrael, having trod,
For the fix'd term of years ordain'd by God,
A barren defert, we shall feize rich plains,
Where milk with honey flows, and plenty reigns.
With fome few natives join'd, fome pliant few,
Who worship int'reft, and our track pursue,
There fhall we, tho' the wretched people grieve,
Ravage at large, nor afk the owners leave.
Mention it not-There faw I ftrangers clad
In all the honours of our ravish'd plaid,
Saw the Ferrara too, our nation's pride,
Unwilling grace the aukward victor's fide.
There fell our choicett youth, and from that day
Mote never Sawney tune the merry lay;
Blefs'd those which fell! curs'd those which still fur-
To mourn Fifteen renew'd in Forty-five.
For us, the earth fhall bring forth her increase;
For us, the flocks fhall wear a golden fleece;
Fat beeves fhall yield us dainties not our own,
And the grape bleed a nectar yet unknown;
For our advantage shall their harvests grow,
And Scotfmen reap what they difdain'd to fow;
For us, the fun shall climb the eastern hill;
For us, the rain shall fall, the dew diftil;
When to our wishes Nature cannot rife,
Art fhall be tafk'd to grant us fresh supplies.
His brawny arm shall drudging Labour strain,
And for our pleasure fuffer daily pain;
Trade fhall for us exert her utmost pow'rs,
Her's all the toil, and all the profit, our's;
Thus plain'd the Boys, when from her throne of For us, the oak fhall from his native fsteep
With boils embofs'd, and overgrown with scurf,
Vile humours, which, in life's corrupted well,
Mix'd at the birth, not abstinence could quell,
Pale FAMINE rear'd the head: her eager eyes,
Where hunger e'en to madness feem'd to rife,
Speaking aloud her throes and pangs of heart,
Strain'd to get loofe, and from their orbs to start ;
Her hollow cheeks were each a deep-funk cell,
Where wretchedness and horror lov'd to dwell;
With double rows of ufelefs sceth fupplied,
Her mouth, from ear to ear, extended wide,
Which, when for want of food her entrails pin'd,
She op'd, and curfing fwallow'd nought but wind;
All fhrivell'd was her skin, and here and there,
Making their way by force, her bones lay bare:
Such filthy fight to hide from human view,
O'er her foul limbs a tatter'd plaid the threw.
Ceafe, cried the goddefs, ceafe, defpairing fwains,
And from a parent hear what Jove ordains!
Pent in this barren corner of the isle,
Where partial fortune never deigned to smile;
Like Nature's baftards, reaping for our fhare
What was rejected by the lawful heir;
Unknown amongst the nations of the earth,
Or only known to raise contempt and mirth;
Long free, because the race of Roman braves
Thought it not worth their while to make us flaves;
Then into bondage by that nation brought,
Whose ruin we for ages vainly fought;
Whom still with unflack'd heat we view, and ftill,
The pow'r of mifchief loft, retain the will;
Confider'd as the refufe of mankind,
A mafs till the last moment left behind,
Which frugal Nature doubted, as it lay,
Whether to ftamp with life, or throw away;
Which, form'd in hafte, was planted in this nook,
But never enter'd in Creation's book;
Branded as traitors, who for love of gold
Would fell their God, as once their King they fold;
Long have we borne this mighty weight of ill,
Thele vile injurious taunts, and bear them still,
But times of happier note are now at hand,
And the full promife of a better land:
Defcend, and fearless travel thro' the deep;
The fail of Commerce for our use unfurl'd,
Shall waft the treasures of each distant world;
For us, fublimer heights fhall Science reach,
For us, their Statesmen plot, their Churchmen
Their nobleft limbs of counsel we'll disjoint,
And, mocking, new ones of our own appoint;
Devouring War, imprison'd in the north,
Shall, at our call, in horrid pomp break forth,
And, when, his chariot wheels with thunder hunga
Fell Difcord braying with her brazen tongue,
Death in the van, with Anger, Hate, and Fear,
And Defolation stalking in the rear.
Revenge, by Juftice guided, in his train,
He drives impetuous o'er the trembling plain,
Shall, at our bidding, quit his lawful prey
And to meek, gentle, gen'rous Peace give way.
Think not, my fons, that this fo bless'd estate
Stands at a diftance on the roll of fate;
Already big with hopes of future fway,
E'en from this cave I scent my deftin'd prey.
Think not, that this dominion o'er a race,
Whofe former deeds fhall Time's last annals grace,
In the rough face of peril must be fought,
And with the lives of thousands dearly bought;
No-fool'd by cunning, by that happy art
Which laugh's to fcorn the blundering hero's heart.
Into the fnare fhall our kind neighbours fall
With open eyes, and fondly give us all.
When Rome, to prop her finking empire, bere
Their choiceft levies to a foreign fhore,
What if we feiz'd, like a destroying flood,
Their widow'd plains, and fill'd the realm with blood.
Gave an unbounded loose to manly rage,
And fcorning mercy, fpar'd nor fex nor age;
When, for our int'reft too mighty grown,
Monarchs of warlike bent poffefs'd the throne,
What if we strove divifions to foment,
And spread the flames of civil difcontent,
Affifted thofe 'gainst their king made head,
And gave the traitors refuge when they fled;
When restless Glory bad her fons advance,
And pitch'd her standard in the fields of France;