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He told him of that precious blood
Which should his guilt efface; Told him that none are lost but they
Who turn from proffered grace.
He bade him pray, and knelt with him,
And joined him in his prayers ; And some who read the dreadful tale
Perhaps will aid with theirs. WESTBURY, 1798.
SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE AT OXFORD, UPON THE INSTAL
LATION OF LORD GRENVILLE.
have had their course since last Exulting Oxford viewed a spectacle Like this day's pomp; and yet to those who
thronged These walls, which echoed then with Portland's
praise, What change hath intervened ! The bloom of
spring Is fled from many a cheek where roseate joy And beauty bloomed ; the inexorable grave Hath claimed its portion ; and the band of youths, Who then, collected here as in a port,
From whence to launch on Life's adventurous sea,
may the Almighty bless the noble race, And crown with happy end their holiest cause !
Deem not these dread events the monstrous birth Of chance. And thou, O England! who dost ride Serene amid the waters of the flood, Preserving, even like the ark of old, Amid the general wreck, thy purer faith, Domestic loves, and ancient liberty,Look to thyself, O England! for be sure, Even to the measure of thine own desert, The cup
of retribution to thy lips Shall soon or late be dealt!
a thought that well Might fill the stoutest heart of all thy sons With awful apprehension. Therefore they Who fear the Eternal's justice bless thy name, Grenville, because the wrongs of Africa Cry out no more to draw a curse from Heaven On England; for if still the trooping sharks Track by the scent of death the accursed ship Freighted with human anguish, in her wake Pursue the chase, crowd round her keel, and dart Toward the sound contending, when they hear The frequent carcass from her guilty deck Dash in the opening deep, no longer now The guilt shall rest on England: but if yet There be among her children, hard of heart And seared of conscience, men who set at nought Her laws and God's own word, upon themselves Their sins be visited! The red-cross flag,
Redeemed from stain so foul, no longer now
This thy praise,
fame Will fade, the conqueror's laurel-crown grow sear ; Fame's loudest trump upon the ear of Time Leaves but a dying echo: they alone Are held in everlasting memory Whose deeds partake of heaven. Long ages hence,