Rouse all your courage at your utmost need;
Now summon ev'ry virtue-stand, and plead.
What! silent? Is your boasting heard no more?
That self-renouncing wisdom, learn'd before,
Had shed immortal glories on your brow,
That all your virtues cannot purchase now.
All joy to the believer! He can speak-
Trembling, yet happy; confident, yet meek.
Since the dear hour that brought me to thy

foot,

And cut up all my follies by the root,

I never trusted in an arm but thine,
Nor hop'd, but in thy righteousness divine:
My pray'rs and alms, imperfect, and defil'd,
Were but the feeble efforts of a child;
Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part
That they proceeded from a grateful heart:
Cleans'd in thine own all purifying blood,
Forgive their evil, and accept their good.

I cast them at thy feet-my only plea
Is what it was-dependence upon thee:

While struggling in the vale of tears below,
That never fail'd, nor shall it fail me now.
Angelic gratulations rend the skies:

Pride falls unpitied, never more to rise;

Humility is crown'd; and faith receives the prize.

1

WHY weeps the muse for England? What appears
In England's case to move the muse to tears?
From side to side of her delightful isle,

Is she not cloth'd with a perpetual smile?

Can nature add a charm, or art confer

A new-found luxury, not seen in her?

Where under heav'n is pleasure more pursued?

Or where does cold reflection less intrude?

Her fields a rich

expanse of

wavy corn,

Pour'd out from plenty's overflowing horn;

Ambrosial gardens, in which art supplies

The fervour and the force of Indian skies;

Her peaceful shores, where busy commerce waits

Το

pour his golden tide through all her gates;

Whom fiery suns, that scorch the russet spice
Of eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice
Forbid in vain to push his daring way

To darker climes, or climes of brighter day;
Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll,
From the world's girdle to the frozen pole;

The chariots, bounding in her wheel-worn streets;
Her vaults below, where ev'ry vintage meets;
Her theatres, her revels, and her sports;

The scenes to which not youth alone resorts,
But age, in spite of weakness and of pain,
Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again;
All speak her happy: let the muse look round
From East to West, no sorrow can be found;

Or only what, in cottages confin'd,

Sighs unregarded to the passing wind.

Then wherefore weep for England? What appears

In England's case to move the muse to tears?

The prophet wept for Israel; wish'd his

Were fountains fed with infinite supplies:

eyes