O my poor Country!-weak, and overpower'd By thine own sons-ate to the bone-devour'd 556 By vipers, which, in thine own entrails bred, Prey on thy life, and with thy blood are fed, With unavailing grief thy wrongs I see, And for myself not feeling feel for thee.
I grieve, but cann't despair-for, lo! at hand
Freedom presents a choice but faithful band
Of loyal patriots; men who greatly dare
In such a noble cause: men fit to beat
The weight of empires; Fortune, Rank, and Sense,
Virtue and Knowledge, leagu'd with Eloquence,
March in their ranks; Freedom from file to file
Darts her delighted eye, and with a smile :
Approves her honest sons, whilst down her cheek,
As 't were by stealth (her heart too full to speak), 570
One tear in silence creeps, one honest tear,
And seems to say, Why is not Granby here?
O ye brave Few! in whom we still may find
A love of virtue, freedom, and mankind,
Go forth-in majesty of wo array'd,
575
See! at your feet your Country kneels for aid,
And (many of her children traitors grown)
Kneels to those sons she still can call her own;
Seeming to breathe her last in ev'ry breath,
She kneels for freedom, or she begs for death— 580
Fly then each duteous son, each English chief,
And to your drooping parent bring relief.
Go forth-nor let the Siren voice of Ease
Tempt ye to sleep whilst tempests swell the seas;
585
Go forth-nor let Hypocrisy, whose tongue
With many a fair, false, fatal art is hung,
Like Bethel's fawning prophet, cross your way,
When your great errand brooks not of delay;
Nor let vain Fear, who cries to all she meets,
Trembling and pale-A lion in the streets-
Damp your free spirits; let not threats affright,
Nor bribes corrupt, nor flatteries delight.
Be as one man-Concord success ensures-
There's not an English heart but what is yours.
Go forth-and Virtue, ever in your sight,
Shall be your guide by day, your guard by night—
Go forth the champions of native land,
in And may the battle prosper your It may, it must-ye cannot be withstoodhearts honest as your cause is good. 600
OLD England has not lost her pray'r,
And George the Good has got an heir;
A royal babe, a Prince of Wales;
-Poets! I pity all your nails-
What reams of paper will be spoil'd,
What graduses be daily soil'd,
By inky fingers, greasy thumbs,
Hunting the word that never comes !
Now academics pump their wits,
And lash in vain their lazy tits;
In vain they whip, and lash, and spur,
The callous jades will never stir,
Nor can they reach Parnassus' hill,
Try ev'ry method which they will:
Nay, should the tits get on for once,
Each rider is so grave a dunce
That, as I've heard good judges say,
'Tis ten to one they 'd lose their way;
Tho' not one wit bestrides the back
Of youthful drudge, ycleped Hack,
But fine-bred things of mettled blood,
Pick'd from Apollo's royal stud,
This poem was not published in Churchill's name, but is admitted by many to be his, and therefore it was thought proper to annex it to this edition of his Works.
Greek, Roman, nay, Arabian steeds,
Or those our mother-country breeds.
Some ride
in and ride ye out,
ye
And to come home go round about,
Nor on the green sward nor the road,
And that I think they call an Ode:
Some take the pleasant country air,
And smack their whips and drive a pair.
Each horse with bells which chink and chime,
And so they marchand that is rhyme :
Some copy with prodigious skill
The figures of a butter bill,
Which with great folks of erudition
Shall pass
for Coptic or Phoenician;
While some, as patriot love prevails,
To compliment a Prince of Wales,
Salute the royal babe in Welsh,
And send forth gutt'rals like a belch.
What pretty things imagination
Will fritter out in adulation!
The Pagan gods shall visit earth
To triumph in a Christian's birth,
While Classic poets, pure and chaste,
Of trim and academic taste,
Shall lug them in by head and shoulders,
To be or speakers or beholders.
Mars shall present him with a lance
To humble Spain and conquer France ;
The Graces, buxom, blithe, and gay,
Shall at his cradle dance the Hay;
And Venus with her train of Loves
Shall bring a thousand pair of doves
To bill, to coo, to whine, to squeak,
Thro' all the dialects of Greek.
How many swains of Classic breed
Shall deftly tune their oaten reed,
And bring their Doric nymphs to Town,
To sing their measures up and down,
In notes alternate, clear, and sweet,
Like ballad-singers in a street!
While those who grasp at reputation,
From imitating imitation,
Shall bunt each cranny, nook, and creek,
From precious fragments in the Greek,
And rob the 'spital and the waste
For sense, and sentiment, and taste.
With Hebrew roots and English trash,
What Latin hodge podge, Grecian hash;
Shall academic cooks produce
For present show and future use!
Fellows who 've soak'd away their knowledge
In sleepy residence at college,
Whose lives are like a stagnant pool,
Muddy and placid, dull and cool,
Mere drinking, eating, eating, drinking,
With no impertinence of thinking;
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