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Our souls, allied to God, within them feel
The secret di&lates of th' Almighty will;
This is his voice, be this our oracle.
When first bis breath the feeds of life inftilled,
All that we ought to know was then then reveal'd.
Nor can we think the Omnipresent mind
Has truth to Libya's desart sands confin'd,
There, known to few, obscur’d, and lost, to lie -
Is there a temple of the Deity,
Except eartlı, sea, and air, yon azure pole;
And chief, his holiest shrine, the virtuous soul ?
Where-e'er the eye can pierce, the feet can move,
This wide, this boundless universe is Jove.
Let abjeet 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 must die one destin'd hour
This Jove has told; he needs not tell us more.

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O on, my friend, the noble task pursue,

And think thy genius is thy country's due;
To vulgar wits inferior themes belong,
But Liberty and Virtue claim thy fong.
Yet cease to hope, though grac'd with every charm,
The patriot verse will cold Britannia warm;
Vainly thou striv'st our languid hearts to raise,
By great examples drawn from better days :
No longer we to Sparta’s fame aspire,
What Sparta fcorn'd, instructed 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 social care, no labour for mankind,
Where mean self-interest every action guides,
In camps commands, in cabinets presides;
Where luxury consumes the guilty store,
And bids the villain be a save for more.

Hence, wretchied nation, all thy woes arisę,
Avow'd corruption, licens’d perjuries,
Eternal taxes, treaties for a day,
Servants that rule, and senates that obey.

O people,

O people, far unlike the Grecian race,
That deems a virtuous poverty disgrace,
That suffers public wrongs and public fiame,
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 ease by frugal care,
Her trade to guard, her harrass'd poor to spare ?
Is it, like honest Somers, to inspire
The love of laws, and Freedom's sacred fire ?
Is it, like wise Godolphin, to sustain
The balanc'd world, and boundless power

restrain ?
Or is the mighty aim of all their toil,
Only to aid the wreck, and share the spoil?
On each relation, friend, dependant, pour,
With partial wantonness, the golden shower,
And, fenc'd by strong corruption, to despise
An injur’d nation's unavailing cries ?
Rouze, Britons, rouze! if sense of shame be weak,
Let the loud voice of threatening danger speak,
Lo! France, as Persia once, o’er every land
Prepares to stretch her all-oppressing hand.
Shall England fit regardless and fedate,
A calm fpectatress of the general fate;
Or call forth all her virtue, and oppose,
Like valiant Greece, her own and Europe's foes ?
O let us seize the moment in our power,
Our follies now have reach'd the fatal hour;
No later term the angry gods ordain ;
This crisis lost, we shall be wise in vain.




And thou, great poet, in whose nervous lines
The native majesty of freedom shines,
Accept this friendly praise ; and let me prove
My heart not wholly void of public love;
Though not like thee I strike the sounding string
To notes which Sparta might have deign'd to sing,
But, idly sporting in the secret shade,
With tender trifles soothe fome artless maid.





In the Year 1736.


ONG had thy virtues mark'd thee out for fame,

Far, far superior to a Cornet's name ;
This generous Walpole faw, and griev'd to find
So mean a post disgrace that noble mind.
The servile standard from thy freeborn hand
He took, and bade thee lead the patriot band,


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For scenes, whose author is, alas ! no more ;
He wants no advocate his cause to plead;
You will yourselves 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 gushing tear :
Alas! I feel, I am no actor here)
He lov'd his friends with such a warmth of heart,
So clear of interest, fo devoid of art,
Such generous friendship, such 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 sympathizing love of others' bliss,
Where will you find another breast like his ?
Such was the man


know :
Oft has he touch'd your hearts with tender woe :
Oft in this crouded house, with just applause,
You heard him teach fair Virtue's purest laws;
For his chalte Muse employ'd her heaven-taught lyro
None but the noblest passions to inspire,


the poet

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