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Our fouls, allied to God, within them feel The fecret dictates of th' Almighty will;
This is his voice, be this our oracle.
When first his breath the feeds of life instill'd,
All that we ought to know was then then reveal'd.
Nor can we think the Omniprefent mind
Has truth to Libya's defart fands confin'd,
There, known to few, obfcur'd, and loft, to lie
Is there a temple of the Deity,
Except earth, fea, and air, yon azure pole;
And chief, his holieft fhrine, the virtuous foul?
Where-e'er the eye can pierce, the feet can move,
This wide, this boundlefs univerfe is Jove.
Let abject minds, that doubt because they fear,
With pious awe to juggling priests repair;
I credit not what lying prophets tell-
Death is the only certain oracle.
Cowards and brave muft die one deftin'd hour-
This Jove has told; he needs not tell us more.
Go on, my friend, the noble task purfue,
And think thy genius is thy country's due;
To vulgar wits inferior themes belong,
But Liberty and Virtue claim thy fong.
Yet ceafe to hope, though grac'd with every charm,
The patriot verfe will cold Britannia warm;
Vainly thou ftriv'ft our languid hearts to raife,
By great examples drawn from better days
No longer we to Sparta's fame afpire,
What Sparta fcorn'd, inftructed to admire;
Nurs'd in the love of wealth, and form'd to bend
Our narrow thoughts to that inglorious end:
No generous purpose can enlarge the mind,
No focial care, no labour for mankind,
Where mean felf-intereft every action guides,
In camps commands, in cabinets prefides;
Where luxury confumes the guilty store,
And bids the villain be a flave for more.
Hence, wretched nation, all thy woes arife,
Avow'd corruption, licens'd perjuries,
Eternal taxes, treaties for a day,
Servants that rule, and fenates that obey.
O people, far unlike the Grecian race,
That deems a virtuous poverty difgrace,
That fuffers public wrongs and public fhame,
In council infolent, in action tame!
Say, what is now th' ambition of the great?
Is it to raise their country's finking state;
Her load of debt to eafe by frugal care,
Her trade to guard, her harrafs'd poor to spare?
Is it, like honeft Somers, to infpire
The love of laws, and Freedom's facred fire?
Is it, like wife Godolphin, to fuftain
The balanc'd world, and boundless power restrain?
Or is the mighty aim of all their toil,
Only to aid the wreck, and fhare the spoil?
On each relation, friend, dependant, pour,
With partial wantonnefs, the golden fhower,
And, fenc'd by strong corruption, to defpife
An injur'd nation's unavailing cries?
Rouze, Britons, rouze! if sense of shame be weak,
Let the loud voice of threatening danger fpeak.
Lo! France, as Perfia once, o'er every land
Prepares to stretch her all-oppreffing hand.
Shall England fit regardless and fedate,
A calm fpectatrefs of the general fate;
Or call forth all her virtue, and oppose,
Like valiant Greece, her own and Europe's foes?
O let us feize the moment in our power,
Our follies now have reach'd the fatal hour;
No later term the angry gods ordain;
This crifis loft, we shall be wife in vain.
And thou, great poet, in whofe nervous lines
The native majefty of freedom fhines,
Accept this friendly praise; and let me prove
My heart not wholly void of public love;
Though not like thee I ftrike the founding string
To notes which Sparta might have deign'd to fing,
But, idly sporting in the secret shade,
With tender trifles foothe fome artlefs maid.
TO WILLIAM PITT, ESQUIRE,
LONG had thy virtues mark'd thee out for fame,
Far, far fuperior to a Cornet's name ;
This generous Walpole faw, and griev'd to find
So mean a poft difgrace that noble mind.
The fervile standard from thy freeborn hand
He took, and bade thee lead the patriot band.
COME not here your candour to implore
For fcenes, whofe author is, alas! no more;
He wants no advocate his caufe to plead;
You will yourfelves be patrons of the dead.
No party his benevolence confin'd,
No fect- alike it flow'd to all mankind.
He lov'd his friends (forgive this gufhing tear:
Alas! I feel, I am no actor here)
He lov'd his friends with fuch a warmth of heart,
So clear of intereft, fo devoid of art,
Such generous friendship, fuch unshaken zeal,
No words can speak it; but our tears may tell.
O candid truth, O faith without a stain,
O manners gently firm, and nobly plain,
O fympathizing love of others' blifs,
Where will you find another breast like his ?
Such was the man- the poet well you know:
Oft has he touch'd your hearts with tender woe:
Oft in this crouded house, with just applaufe,
You heard him teach fair Virtue's pureft laws;
For his chafte Mufe employ'd her heaven-taught lyre
None but the nobleft paffions to inspire,