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Poems

By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes

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111

Of this accordant mixture duly mark
In many a mighty master of thine art
The beautiful result; tho', first, observe
Two great exemplars, (whom thy country views
With justest admiration), not unstain'd
By blemishes which our instructive song
Hath clearly pointed. Thro' the shade of years
If thou revert thy transitory gaze;
Where, in the British senate, wilt thou fix
Thy vagrant eye? Few are the chiefs that claim
Our homage. Tho', at CHARLES's fateful day,
Flash'd, as a light meteorous (that quick
Thro' æther passes beyond mortal ken)
The rapid blaze of eloquence; the muse
Perceives no model, who, approaching near
To finish'd oratory, can be trac'd
In lines distinctive. Not that she disdains
A SELDEN's vigor, or a HAMPDEN's rage,
Or the devoted STRAFFORD's last essay
Glorious thro' great emergence! But we haste
To catch the features of a BRUNSWICK's reign

112

Where, from a galaxy of speakers bright
With indiscriminated beams, broke forth
A CHATHAM's splendour! Fast the mingled rays
Of the surrounding orators grew pale—
Fainting into the skies! Ev'n WYNDHAM's star
Was dim; and PULTENEY had no lustre, there.
And, lo! the flaming son of genius, bold
In native independence, and impell'd
By strong ambition, seizes at a grasp
The comprehensive subject, that appears
Infinitude to vulgar views! His mind

113

Original and vast, his nervous strain
Unlabour'd and irregular, his voice
Commanding, his eye cloath'd with lightnings, stern
His aspect and terrific, as the frown
Of heav'n—sublimity his every nod
Attended, proud of her ministrant powers!
'Twas thus THEMISTOCLES the Athenian tribes
Struck with amazement, as his eagle mind
Intuitive disdain'd the softer arts
Of rhetoric, trusting to its strength alone!
But CHATHAM, tho' not versatile as great,
Could ev'n effuse the insinuating tones
Of sweetness, with so exquisite a grace,
That his enchanted auditory hung
Upon his breath reposing, as the wave
In placid stillness rests upon the shore!