The earth fhall fhake him out of all his holds, Happy the man who fees a God employed In all the good and ill that checquer life! Refolving all events, with their effects And manifold refults, into the will And arbitration wife of the Supreme. Did not his eye rule all things, and intend The leaft of our concerns (fince from the leaft That live an atheift life: involves the heav'n And gives them all their fury: bids a plague And putrify the breath of blooming health. He He calls for famine, and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from between his fhrivel'd lips, Forth steps the spruce philofopher, and tells 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 disease that nature feels, And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool! will thy discov'ry of the cause Still wrought by means fince first he made the world, To drown it? What is his creation lefs Than a capacious refervoir of means Form'd for his use, and ready at his will? Go, dress thine eyes with eye-falve, afk of him, Or afk of whomfoever he has taught, And learn, though late, the genuine caufe of all. England, with all thy faults, I love thee still 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, deform'd With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy fullen fkies And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Aufonia's groves Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bow'rs. To fhake 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 juft difdain Frown Frown at effeminates, whofe very looks Reflect difhonor on the land I love. How, in the name of foldiership and fenfe, Should England profper, when fuch things, as fmooth And tender as a girl, all effenced o'er With odors, and as profligate as fweet, Who fell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, And love when they fhould fight; when fuch as thefe Prefume to lay their hand upon the ark Of her magnificent and awful caufe? Time was when it was praife and boast enough That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, And one in council. Wolfe upon the lap Of |