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He speaks, and they appear; to him they owe Skill to direct, and strength to strike the blow; To manage with address, to seize with
power The crisis of a dark decisive hour. So Gideon earn’d a victory not his own; Subserviency his praise, and that alone.
Poor England! thou art a devoted deer, Beset with every ill but that of fear. Thee nations hunt; all mark thee for a prey; They swarm around thee, and thou stand’st at bay. Undaunted still, though wearied and perplex’d, Once Chatham saved thee; but who saves thee Alas! the tide of pleasure sweeps along [next? All that should be the boast of British song. 'Tis not the wreath that once adorn'd thy brow, The prize of happier times, will serve thee now. Our ancestry, a gallant Christian race, Patterns of every virtue, every grace, Confess'd a God; they kneel'd before they fought, And praised him in the victories he wrought. Now from the dust of ancient days bring forth Their sober zeal, integrity, and worth; Courage, ungraced by these, affronts the skies, Is but the fire without the sacrifice. The stream, that feeds the well spring of the heart, Not more invigorates life's noblest part Than Virtue quickens with a warmth divine The powers that Sin has brought to a decline.
A. The' inestimable Estimate of Brown Rose like a paper kite, and charm’d the town; But measures, plann’d and executed well, Shifted the wind that raised it, and it feil. He trod the very selfsame ground you tread, And Victory refuted all he said.
B. And yet his judgment was not framed amiss; Its error, if it err’d, was merely this He thought the dying hour already come, And a complete recovery struck him dumb.
But that effeminacy, folly, lust Enervate and enfeeble, and needs must; And that a nation shamefully debased Will be despised and trampled on at last, Unless sweet Penitence her powers renew, Is truth, if history itself be true. There is a time, and Justice marks the date, For long-forbearing Clemency to wait; That hour elapsed, the’ incurable revolt Is punish’d, and down comes the thunderbolt. If Mercy then put by the threatening blow, Must she perform the same kind office now? May she! and, if offended Heaven be still Accessible, and prayer prevail, she will
. 'Tis not, however, insolence and noise, The tempest of tumultuary joys, Nor is it yet despondence and dismay Will win her visits or engage Prayer only, and the penitential tear, Can call her smiling down, and fix her here.
But when a country (one that I could name)
of trade; When Avarice starves (and never hides his face) Two or three millions of the human race,
And not a tongue inquires, how, where, or when,
Not only Vice disposes and prepares
Obduracy takes place; callous and tough,
A. Such lofty strains embellish what you teach, Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach?
B. I know the mind, that feels indeed the fire The Muse imparts, and can command the lyre, Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal, Whate'er the theme, that others never feel. If human woes her soft attention claim, A tender sympathy pervades the frame, She
pours a sensibility divine Along the nerve of every feeling line. But if a deed not tamely to be borne Fire indignation and a sense of scorn, The strings are swept with such a power, so loud, The storm of music shakes the astonish'd crowd.
So, when remote futurity is brought
hallow'd druid was a bard.
A. At Westminster, where little poets strive, To set a distich upon six and five, Where Discipline helps the'opening buds of sense, And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, I was a poet too: but modern taste Is so refined, and delicate, and chaste, That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms, Without a creamy smoothness has no charms. Thus, all success depending on an ear, And thinking I might purchase it too dear, If sentiment were sacrificed to sound, And truth cut short to make a period round, I judged a man of sense could scarce do worse Than caper
in the morris-dance of verse. B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit, And some wits flag through fear of losing it. Give me the line that ploughs its stately course Like a proud swan,conquering the stream by force: That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart, Quite unindebted to the tricks of art.