May be furpriz'd with better than they fought,
And entertain an angel unawares.
Nor is Divinity ungrateful found.
As politics advance divinity,
Thus, in return, divinity promotes
True politics, and crowns the statesman's praife.
All wifdoms are but branches of the chief,
And ftateimen found but fhoots of honeft men.
Are this world's witchcrafts pleaded in excufe
For deviations in our moral line?
This, and the next world, view'd with such an eye
As fuits a statesman, such as keeps in view
His own exalted fcience, both confpire
To recommend and fix us in the right.
If we reward the politics of heaven,
The grand adminiftration of the whole,
What's the next world? A fupplement of this: 485, Without it, Juftice is defective here;
Juft as to ftates, defective as to men :
If so, what is this world? as fure as Right
Sits in heaven's throne, a prophet of the next.
Prize
you the prophet? then believe him too:
His prophecy more precious than his smile.
How comes it then to pass, with most on earth,
That this fhould charm us, that fhould difcompofe?
Long as the statesman finds this cafe his own,
So long his politics are uncomplete;
In danger he; nor is the nation fafe,
But foon muft rue his inaufpicious power.
What hence refults? a truth that should refcund
For ever awful in Britannia's car:
Religion crowns the statesman and the man, "Sole fource of public and of private peace."
This truth all men must own, and therefore will, And praise and preach it too:-and when that's done, Their compliment is paid, and 'tis forgot.
What highland pole-axe half fo deep can wound? 505
But how dare I, fo mean, presume so far?
Affume my feat in the Dictator's chair?
Pronounce, predict (as if indeed inspir'd),
Promulge my cenfures, lay out all my throat,
Till hoarfe in clamour on enormous crimes?
Two mighty columns rife in my support;
In their more awful and authentic voice,
Record profane and facred, drown the Muse, Though loud, and far out-threat her threatening fong. Still farther, Holles! fuffer me to plead
That I speak freely, as I fpeak to thee.
Guilt only startles at the name of guilt;
And truth, plain truth, is welcome to the wife.
Thus what feem'd my prefumption is thy praise.
Praise, and immortal praise, is Virtue's claim; 520
And Virtue's sphere is action: yet we grant
Some merit to the trumpet's loud alarm,
Whofe clangor kindles cowards into men.
Nor fhall the verfe, perhaps, be quite forgot,
Which talks of immortality, and bids,
In every British breast, true glory rise,
As now the warbling lark awakes the morn.
To clofe, my Lord! with that which all should clofe And all begin, and strike us every hour,
Though no war wak'd us, no black tempeft frown'd.--
The morning rifes gay; yet gayeft morn
Lefs glorious after night's incumbent shades ;
Lefs glorious far bright Nature, rich array'd
With golden robes, in all the pomp of noon,
Than the first feeble dawn of Moral day?
Sole day, (let those whom statesmen serve attend)
Though the fun ripens diamonds for their crowns;
Sole day worth his regard whom heaven ordains,
Undarken'd, to behold noon dark, and date,
From the fun's death, and every planet's fall, 540
His all-illuftrious and eternal year;
Where statesmen and their monarchs, (names of awe
And distance here) shall rank with common men,
Yet own their glory never dawn'd before.
LOVE OF FAME, the Univerfal Paffion, in Seven
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