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Did'st thou for this sustain a mortal wound, While Heaven, and Earth, and Hell, bung trem
bling round? That these vile fetters might my body bind ; And agony like this, distract my mind On thee I calld with reverential awe, Adored thy wisdom, and embraced thy law; Yet mark thy destined convert as he lies, His groans of anguish, and his livid eyes, These galling chains, polluted with his blood, Then bid bis tongue proclaim thee just and good ! But if too weak thy vaunted power to spare, Or suffcrings move thee not, o hear despair! Thy hopes and blessings, I alike resign, But let revenge, let swift revenge be mine ! Be this proud bark, which now triumphant rides, Toss'd by the winds, and shatter'd by the tides, And may these fiends, who now exulting view The horrours of my fortune, feel them too! Be theirs the torment of a lingering fate, Slow as thy justice, dreadful as may hate; Condemn'd to grasp the riven plank in vain, And chased by all the monsters of the main ; And while they spread their sinking arms to thee, Then let their fainting souls reinember me !
- Thanks, righteous God !--Revenge shall yet be .mine ;
; Yon flashing lightning gave the dreadful sign. I see the flames of heavenly anger hur)'d, I hear your thunders shake a guilty world. The time shall come, the fated hour is nigh, When guiltless blood shall penetrate the sky. Amid these horrours, and involving night; Prophetick visions flash before my sight, Eternal Justice wakes, and in their turn The vanquish'd triumph, and the victors mourn ; Lo! Discord, fiercest of the infernal band, :. Fires all her snakes, and waves her flaming brand ; No more proud Commerce courts the western
gales, But marks tłe lurid skies, and furls her sails; War mounts his iron car, and at his wheels In vain soft Pity weeps, and Mercy kneels, He breathes a savage rage through all the host, And stains with kindred blood the impious coast; Then, while with horrour sickening Nature groans, And earth and heaven the monstrous race dis
owns, Then the stern genius of my native land, With delegated vengeance in his hand,
Shall raging cross the troubled seas, and pour
I ask no lazy pleasures to possess, .
Thomas Warton's prose-works are confused and desultory. His poetry is like a new medal, spotted with artificial rust; yet there is no man of his generation to whom our literature is so much indebted, except Percy. He bore a great part in what may be called our Poetical Refore mation — in recalling us from a blind faith in Idols, to
the study of the true books. It is delightful to hear how all Wykehamists speak of this
happy-natured man, who carried with him a boy's heart to the grave.-We still want a life of Warton, which should relate all his good-tempered oddities.
STATELY the feast and high the cheer ;