While struggling in the vale of tears below,
That never failed, nor shall it fail me now.

Angelic gratulations rend the skies,

Pride falls unpitied, never more to rise,

Humility is crowned, and faith receives the prize.

EXPOSTULATION.

Tantane, tam patiens, nullo certamine tolli

Dona sines?

VIRG.

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 clothed with a perpetual smile?

Can nature add a charm, or art confer

A new found luxury not seen in her?

Where under heaven is pleasure more pursued,

Or where does cold reflection less intrude?

Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn,
Poured 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

To

pour his golden tide through all her gates;

Whom fiery suns, that scorch the russet spice

Of eastern groves, and oceans floored 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 every 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 confined,

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; wished his eyes Were fountains fed with infinite supplies:

For Israel dealt in robbery and wrong;

There were the scorner's and the slanderer's tongue;
Oaths, used as playthings or convenient tools,

As interest biassed knaves, or fashion fools;
Adultery, neighing at his neighbour's door;
Oppression, labouring hard to grind the poor;
The partial balance, and deceitful weight;

The treacherous smile, a mask for secret hate;
Hypocrisy, formality in prayer,

And the dull service of the lip were there.
Her women, insolent and self-caressed,

By vanity's unwearied finger dressed,
Forgot the blush, that virgin fears impart

To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art;

Were just such trifles, without worth or use,
As silly pride and idleness produce;

Curled, scented, furbelowed, and flounced around,

With feet too delicate to touch the ground,

They stretched the neck, and rolled the wanton eye,

And sighed for every fool that fluttered by.