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The earth fhall fhake him out of all his holds,
Or make his houfe his grave. Nor fo content,
Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood,
And drown him in her dry and dufty gulphs.
What then-were they the wicked above all,
And we the righteous, whose fast-anchor'd isle
Moved not, while their's was rock'd like a light skiff,
The fport of ev'ry wave? No: none are clear,
And none than we more guilty. But where all
Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts
Of wrath obnoxious, God may chuse his mark:
May punish, if he please, the lefs, to warn
The more malignant. If he fpar'd not them,
Tremble and be amazed at thine escape
Far guiltier England, left he spare not thee,

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

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And arbitration wife of the Supreme.

Did not his eye rule all things, and intend

The leaft of our concerns (fince from the leaft
The greatest oft originate), could chance
Find place in his dominion, or difpofe
One lawless particle to thwart his plan,
Then God might be furprized, and unforeseen
Contingence might alarm him, and disturb
The smooth and equal courfe of his affairs.
This truth, philofophy, though eagle-eyed
In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks,
And, having found his inftrument, forgets
Or difregards, or more prefumptuous still
Denies the pow'r that wields it. God proclaims
His hot displeasure against foolish men

That live an atheift life: involves the heav'n
In tempefts, 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.

He

He calls for famine, and the meagre fiend

Blows mildew from between his fhrivel'd lips,
And taints the golden ear. He fprings his mines,
And defolates a nation at a blast.

Forth steps the spruce philofopher, and tells
Of homogeneal and difcordant fprings

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
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 use, and ready at his will?

Go, dress thine eyes with eye-falve, afk of him,

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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
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

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