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Si te fortè meæ gravis uret sarcina chartæ,
Hor. Lib. I. Epist. 13.
A. You told me, I remember, glory, built On selfish principles, is shame and guilt; The deeds, that men admire as half divine, Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears The laurel, that the very lightning spares; Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, And eats into his bloody sword like rust.
B. I grant that, men continuing what they are, Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war; 10 And never meant the rule should be applied To him, that fights with justice on his side.
Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, Reward his mem'ry, dear to ev'ry muse,
Who, with a courage of unshaken root,
Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days,
Unworthy of the blessings of the brave,
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
But let eternal infamy pursue
The wretch to nought but his ambition true, 30
Some royal mastiff panting at their heels,
Then grace the bony phantom in their stead
A. Tis your belief the world was made for
Kings do but reason on the selfsame plan: Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn, Who think, or seem to think, man made for them.
B. Seldom, alas! the pow'r of logic reigns 51 With much sufficiency in royal brains;
Such reas'ning falls like an inverted cone,
Is worth, with all it's gold and glitt'ring store,
To nurse with tender care the thriving arts;
To give Religion her unbridled scope,
Nor judge by statute a believer's hope;