Yet never, Chatham, have I pafs'd a day
In riot's orgies, or in idle ease;
Ne'er have I facrific'd to sport and play,
Or wish'd a pamper'd appetite to please.
Hard was my fate, and conftant was my toil;
Still with the morning's orient light I rofe,
Fell'd the ftout oak, or rais'd the lofty pile,
Parch'd in the fun, in dark December froze.
Is it that Nature with a niggard hand
Witholds her gifts from thefe once-favour'd plains? Has God, in vengeance to a guilty land,
Sent dearth and famine to her labouring fwains?
Ah, no! yon hill, where daily fweats my brow,
A thousand flocks, a thoufand herds adorn;
Yon field, where late I drove the painful plough,
Feels all her acres crown'd with wavy corn.
But what avails that o'er the furrow'd foil
In autumn's heat the yellow harvests rise,
If artificial want elude my toil,
Untafted plenty wound my craving eyes
What profits, that at diftance I behold
My wealthy neighbour's fragrant fmoke afcend, If ftill the griping cormorants withold
The fruits which rain and genial feafons fend?
If those fell vipers of the publick weal
Yet unrelenting on our bowels prey ;
If ftill the curfe of penury we feel,
And in the midft of plenty pine away?
In every port the vessel rides fecure,
That wafts our harvest to a foreign shore : While we the pangs of preffing want endure, The fons of ftrangers riot on our store.
O generous Chatham! ftop those fatal fails,
Once more with out-ftretch'd arm thy Britons fave ; Th' unheeding crew but wait for favouring gales,
O ftop them, ere they ftem Italia's wave!
From thee alone I hope for inftant aid,
'Tis thou alone canft fave my children's breath
O deem not little of our cruel meed!
O hafte to help us! for delay is death.
So may nor spleen nor envy blast thy name,
Nor voice prophane thy patriot acts deride;
Still may'ft thou ftand the firft in honeft fame,
Unftung by folly, vanity, or pride!
So may thy languid limbs with strength be brac'd,
And glowing health support thy active soul ;
With fair renown thy publick virtue grac'd,
Far as thou bad'ft Britannia's thunder roll,
Then Joy to thee, and to thy children peace,'
The grateful hind fhall drink from Plenty's horn:
And while they share the cultur'd land's increase,
The poor fhall blefs the day when Pitt was born!
LORD WILLIAM RUSSEL, TO LORD WILLIAM CAVENDISH
OST to the world, to-morrow doom'd to die,
Still for my country's weal my heart beats high.
Tho' rattling chains ring peals of horror round,
While night's black shades augment the savage found,
'Midft bolts and bars the active foul is free,
And flies, unfetter'd, Cavendish, to thee!
Thou dear companion of my better days,
When hand in hand we trod the paths of praise ;
When, leagu'd with patriots, we maintain'd the caufe
Of true religion, liberty, and laws;
Difdaining down the golden stream to glide,
But bravely ftemm'd Corruption's rapid tide ;
Think not I come to bid thy tears to flow,
Or melt thy generous foul with tales of woe!
No! view me firm, unfhaken, undismay'd,
As when the welcome mandate I obey'd.
Heavens! with what pride that moment I recal!
Who would not wish, fo honour'd, thus to fall!
When England's Genius, hovering o'er, inspir'd
Her chofen fons, with love of Freedom fir'd,
Spite of an abject, fervile, penfion'd train,
Minions of power, and worshippers of gain,
This Epiftle is fupposed to have been written by Lord Ruffel, on Friday night, July 20, 1683, in Newgate; that prison having been the place of his confinement for some days immediately preceding his execution.
To fave from bigotry it's deftin'd prey,
And shield three nations from tyrannick fway.
'Twas then my Cavendish caught the glorious flame,
The happy omen of his future fame ;
Adorn'd by Nature, perfected by Art,
The clearest head, and warmeft, nobleft heart,
His words, deep finking in each captiv'd ear,
Had power to make e'en Liberty more dear.
While I, unfkill'd in oratory's lore,
Whose tongue ne'er speaks but when the heart runs o'er
In plain blunt phrafe my honeft thoughts express'd,
Warm from the heart, and to the heart addrefs'd,
Justice prevail'd; yes, Juftice, let me say,
Well pois'd her fcales on that anfpicious day.
The watchful fhepherd fpies the wolf afar,
Nor trufts his flock to try th' unequal war:
What tho' the favage crouch in humble guise,
And check the fire that flashes from his eyes,
Should once his barbarous fangs the fold invade,
Vain were their cries, too late the shepherd's aid;
Thirsting for blood, he knows not how to fpare,
His jaws diftend, his fiery eye-balls glare,
While ghaftly Defolation, ftalking round,
With mangled limbs beftrews the purple ground.
Now, memory, fail! nor let my mind revolve,
How England's peers annull'd the just resolve,
Against her bofom aim'd a deadly blow,
And laid at once her great Palladium low!
Degenerate nobles! Yes; by Heaven I swear,
Had Bedford's felf appear'd delinquent there,
And join'd, forgetful of his country's claims,
To thwart th' exclufion of apoftate James,
All filial ties had then been left at large,
And I myself the first to urge the charge!
Such the fix'd fentiments that rule my foul,
Time cannot change, nor tyranny controul;
While free, they hung upon my penfive brow,
Then my chief care, my pride and glory now;
Foil'd, I fubmit, nor think the measure hard,
For confcious virtue is it's own reward.
Vain then is force, and vain each subtle art,
To wring retraction from my tortur'd heart;
There lie, in marks indelible engrav'd,
The means whereby my country must be fav'd:
Are to thine eyes thofe characters unknown?
To read my inmoft heart, confult thine own;
There wilt thou find this facred truth reveal'd,
Which shall to-morrow with my blood be feal'd,
Seek not infirm expedients to explore,
But banish James, or England is no more."
Friendship her tender offices may spare,
Nor strive to move the unforgiving pair,
Hopeless the tyrant's mercy-feat to climb-
Zeal for my country's freedom, is my crime!
Ere that meets pardon, lambs with wolves fhall range,
Charles be a faint, and James his nature change.
Prefs'd by my friends, and Rachael's fond defires *,
(Who can deny what weeping love requires!)
Frailty prevail'd, and for a moment quell'd
Th' indignant pride that in my bosom swell'd;
I fu'd-the weak attempt I blush to own→→→
I fu'd for mercy, proftrate at the throne.
O! blot the foible out, my noble friend!
With human firmness, human feelings blend!
When love's endearments fofteft moments feize,
And love's dear pledges hang upon the knees,
When Nature's ftrongest ties the foul entral,
(Thou canst conceive, for thou haft felt them all!)
Let him refift their prevalence who can ;
He muft, indeed, be more or less than man!
Lady Rachael Ruffel, his wife. See her Letters.
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