Hope you across the main to fly*
Again unmark'd by Nelson's eye?
Say, will you tempt once more the fight
With trophied Acre's godlike knight?
The fire of valiant Duncan brave,
Or meet St. Vincent on the wave?
Or, should dim mists in hazy cloud
Your voyage inauspicious shroud,
Should the rash vows you breathe be crown'd,
Ah, should you tread yon fatal ground,
Will all your force one trophy boast
Redeem'd, from that victorious host,
Which from your bravest bands they tore,
With conquering arm on Egypt's shore,
Where Scotia's annals long shall tell
Victor in death her veteran fell,
While Erin twines her laurel bough
Round, modest Hutchinson, thy brow?
See, his scorn'd olive thrown aside,
Cornwallis frowns in warlike pride;
Dreadful in arms see Moira shine,
The noblest of a noble line † ;
See, where their patriot Monarch leads,
From breezy hills and verdant meads
Croud the bold peasants wide and far
To swell the wasted ranks of war,
Fierce, as the wolves from Atlas' brow
Rush on the trembling herds below.
Vitabis, strepitumque, & celerem sequi
Ajacem, &c.
Tydeides melior patre.
Cervus uti vallis in altera
Visum parte lupum. &c.
Not such the promise that betray'd*
Your squadrons from their native glade.
Tho' empty hopes your breast beguile +
That Chatham's son, retired awhile
From Albion's councils, should delay
Of your disgrace the fatal day:
Lo! once again his wisdom guides
Of Britain's arms the impetuous tides,
In act with whelming wave to sweep
Your scatter'd legions to the deep."
Ан, were I but a breath of air!
And thou with heat opprest ;
Welcome I'd court thy bosom bare,
And wanton on thy breast.
Ah, were I but a rose! that grew
Thy searching eye to meet :
Plac'd on thy neck, my purple hue
Should grace the snowy seat.
Ah, were but I a lily fair,
In virgin tints array'd,
Plac'd on thy neck, new whiteness there
Would all my leaves pervade.
* Non hoc pollicitus tuæ.
+ Iracunda diem profere Ilio, &c.
For a Dissenters' Meeting-House in the Country.
ALTHOUGH within this holy hall
The beauteous arts have never stood, To image on the storied wall.
Our Pilgrim-prophet doing good;
We need no painting's gaudy show
To print his kindness on our heart,
Who, while he wept at human woe,
Pour'd balsam on the sufferer's smart.
Tho' here no Sculptor's pious hands
Engrav'd the mighty Victim's death,
We can obey the lov'd commands
Taught by his last, his dying breath.
We claim no organ's solemn tone
To wing our praises to the sky;
The incense of the heart alone
Climbs with a welcome wing on high.
Not on the marble altar's brink
Only descends Devotion's tear;
Simplicity high thoughts may think:
To God the simple mind is dear.
Of Ode XVI. of the Second Book of Horace.
WHEN jolly JACK afar is bound,
Some hundred leagues from British ground,
His course rude Boreas stopping;
He looks askew at low'ring skies,
Thinks of his Sally's sparkling eyes,
And longs for ease and Wapping.
In London, negro beggars pine
For ease, in huts beneath the line,
Remote from beadles sturdy;
The poor Savoyard, doom'd to roam
In search of halfpence, sighs for home,
And spins his hurdy gurdy.
Ease loves to live with shepherd swains,
Nor in the lowly cot disdains
To share an humble dinner
But would not for a turtle treat
Sit with a miser or a cheat,
Or canker'd party-sinner.
In Britain, Ease makes Labour glad—
She travels with the merry lad,
Who whistles by his waggon;
Bids him not envy Fox or Pitt;
Whilst ale-inspiring, homespun wit
Flows from the guggling flaggon.
Care's an obtrusive craz'd physician,
Who visits folks of high condition,
And doses them with bitters;
Claps caustics on the tend'rest sores,
And won't be turn'd from great men's doors
By footmen or beef-eaters.
Some, to avoid this frantic pest,
Sail to the north, south, east, or west-
Alas! Care travels brisker;
Light as a squirrel he can skip
On board a ninety-four gun ship,
And tweak an Admiral's whisker!
The lamp of life is soon burnt out,
Then who'd for riches make a rout,
Except a doating blockhead;-
When Charon takes 'em both on board,
Of equal worth's the miser's hoard,
And spendthrift's empty pocket.
In such a sorry world as this,
We may not hope for perfect bliss
And length of days together;
We have no moral liberty
At will to live, at will to die,
In fair or stormy weather.
ROCKINGHAM, good as he is great,
Was seiz'd by unrelenting Fate,
Our freedom whilst he guarded;
Others, whom, if it pleas'd the Lord
To take 'em, we could well afford,
May live as long as Parr did.
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