Or make his house his grave: nor so content, Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee! 160 Happy the man, who sees a God employ'd In all the good and ill, that checker life! Resolving all events, with their effects And manifold results, into the will And arbitration wise of the Supreme. Did not his eye rule all things, and intend The least of our concerns (since from the least Find place in his dominion, or dispose Then God might be surpris'd, and unforeseen 170 And, having found his instrument, forgets, That live an atheist life: involves the Heav'ns 180 And putrefy the breath of blooming Health. Blows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips, And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines And desolates a nation at a blast. Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells And principles; of causes how they work Of action and reaction: he has found The source of the disease, that nature feels, And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool! will thy discov'ry of the cause 190 Still wrought by means since first he made the world? And did he not of old employ his means To drown it? What is his creation less Than a capacious reservoir of means Form'd for his use, and ready at his will? Go, dress thine eyes with eyesalve; ask of him, Or ask of whomsoever he has taught; 200 And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all 210 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 sullen skies, And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs. To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my task: But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake As Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart any thund'rer there. And I can feel Thy follies too; and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates, whose very looks Reflect dishonour on the land I love. How, in the name of soldiership and sense, 220 Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er With odours, and as profligate as sweet; Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, And love when they should fight; when such as these Presume to lay their hand upon the ark Of her magnificent and awful cause? 230 Time was when it was praise and boast enough That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, Of smiling Victory that moment won, |