Or Shame conceals, or mean conditions hide,
Or evil fashions whelm 'em in their tide.
Some Vanity misleads, some Grief restrains,
Some pine with sickness, or are rack'd with pains;
Or Fear, amidst the mass of talents giv'n,
Breaks their consistence with her light'ning leav'n;
Or Sloth's dull dropsy chills their strength away,
Or Vice inflames 'em with her fev'rous sway,
Or sacred Truth, ill seen by Folly's light,
Those efforts checks which most her laws excite
e;
Or in their fairest lustre, mightiest force,
Faction beguiles 'em to conduct her course—
Her tide to strengthen, make her madden more,
And toss superior shipwrecks on her shore.
Gold, or low lucre, titles, wands, and strings—
Whate'er men rev'rence as the gifts of Kings,
Sought for themselves, are trivial in their worth,
Yet Virtue's means to grace her coming forth.
For, oh! when men as ends pursue the means,
Away, ye good, be gone to sylvan scenes,
Fly far from courts, and in some shadowy nook
Abide with health, clear conscience, and a book;
Still from your cottage ye may pour the ray
That guides benighted mortals on their way-
Still on your lonely shore the land-mark rear,
That tells the sea-lost wand'rer how to steer.
Mark the first spirits, whose heroic aim
Won their appointment to the van of Fame;
Trace their desert, and you will ever find
It was their merit with the wisest mind
To blend benignant virtue; nor suffic'd
With native pow'rs the gain of Art they priz'd
Laborious, patient, added grace to grace,
And sought the strength by which they ran their race:
They deem'd superior parts bestow'd by Heav'n,
For ampler culture, toils proportion'd, giv'n,
And, in their consciousness of genius, saw
Their higher duty-their diviner law.
The more by birth was giv'n, the more they sought,
And, lab'ring, thence their great atchievements wrought;
What once was toil, their easiest pace became-
Their age, admiring, mark'd their pow'r and aim,
And what was wonder then Time mellow'd into fame.
Their influence genial as the solar rays—
Nations were bless'd, and empires joy'd to raise
The fathers of mankind the proudest piles of praise.
Wit rolls to gather greatest magnitude,
Nor but by culture are its faults subdued.
Vast pow'rs of nature, conscious of their force,
Conduct despise, flow careless in their course,
Boil over barren rocks, an idle sound,
Nor like the Nile o'erflow productive ground:
But when with amplest genius toils unite,
'Tis then a Murray beams on Wonder's sight
The new star Burke flames forth, and floods the world
with light.
There is a time ('tis Life's high noon) when man
Should all his pow'rs collect to fix his plan.
Set on this line, dividing age and youth,
From Error's shore he launches into Truth,
Or 'bides for ever there, nor gains the tide
Where, fraught with heroes, fleets of Honour ride.
This is the period, when the mind enlarg'd,
Is still with youth's elastic spirit charg'd-
Less wise than age, but wise, and far more bold,
Nor rashly young, nor indolently old;
This is the Rubicon of life, and here
To choose amiss superior spirits fear,
Men plac'd, and gifted as my noble friend,
The few on whom the many most depend.
Ah! glorious toils await thee-'tis not thine
To drone thro' life-perhaps it is not mine;
At least, my faithful Muse may fan thy fire-
Haply behold it loftily aspire-
Joy in the lustre, and, though distant, see
Her hopes (a harvest grown) expand with grace in thee.
Shakspere's Chorus before the Battle of Agincourt.-Henry V.
NIGHT slowly walks this ample round,
Where nought but creeping murmurs sound; And, link'd in arm with wild'ring Fear, She startles, tho' no danger near: These creeping murmurs, to the day Unknown, redouble Horror's sway. How dismal Night, from earth and skies When many-colour'd Beauty flies, Following the bright-hair'd Sun, and yields To hermit thought her darken'd fields ! Ah! me, what meets mine ear from yonder plain, Where Sleep half holds the warrior in his chain?
He dreams of conquest, dreams of flight,
Now starts to see some gory sight,
And, wildly waking, stares around,
But hears no more the trumpet sound:
Then list'ning, throbs of glory feels,
As from each army stilly steals
One universal hum: to me
Whispering it says, what woe to see
Yon blooming child of Glory toil
To win in burnish'd arms her smile,
When haply, ere a second sun shall rise,
A naked, mangled, clay-cold corse he lies.
Blow, blow, ye winds, to fit a night that leads
Bellona's day, one storm of deathful deeds!
But this still night, ah! list, might bear
From watch to watch the whisper'd word;
And, lo! on this smooth sea of air,
I hear it on its way, with terror heard.
Fire answers fire; the paly flame
Shews many an eager son of Fame,
And thro' this umb'ring night each face
Frowns into horror nature's grace,
Boding the morrow's martial zeal
Which each shall rue, and most shall feel;
Whilst o'er the plain, where soon they bleed,
Loud neighs the fire-eyed steed to steed,
Startling dull Night with dire essay
Of battle's more terrific bray
When Pain, and Rage, and Hate, with all their force Thro' floods of gore precipitate their course.
Now from his tent the valiant knight
Comes forth, ambitious for the fight,
His arm'rour calls, and lifts his eye,
In vain, to view the breaking sky;
Shrill on his arms the hammer rings,
A war song to the brave it sings,
To dastard hearts a moan of woe,
For heard yon cock's once-cheering crow,
ia. For heard yon village-bells, which say
"Prepare you for the bloody day"-
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