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So pure the vows which claffic duty pays
To blefs another Brunfwick's rifing rays!
O Pitt, if chosen ftrains have power to steal
Thy watchful breaft awhile from Britain's weal;
If votive verle, from facred Isis fent,
Might hope to charm thy manly mind, intent
On patriot plans, which ancient freedom drew,
Awhile with fond attention deign to view
This ample wreath, which all th' affembled Nine
With fkill united have confpir'd to twine.
Yes, guide and guardian of thy country's caufe!
Thy confcious heart fhall hail with juft applaufe
The duteous Mufe, whofe hafte officious brings
Her blameless off'ring to the fhrine of kings:
Thy tongue, well tutor'd in hiftoric lore,
Can fpeak her office and her use of yore:
For fuch the tribute of ingenuous praise
Her harp difpens'd in Grecia's golden days;
Such were the palms, in ifles of old renown,
She cull'd, to deck the guiltlefs monarch's crown;
When virtuous Pindar told, with Tufcan gore
How feeptied Hiero ftain'd Sicilia's fhore,
Or to mild Theron's raptur'd eye difclos'd
Bright vales, where fpirits of the brave repos'd:
Yet ftill beneath the throne, unbrib'd, the fat
The decent handmaid, not the flave, of state;
Pleas'd in the radiance of the regal name
To blend the luftre of her country's fame :
For, taught like Ours, the dar'd with prudent pride
Obedience from dependance to divide :
Though princes claim'd her tributary lays.
With truth fevere the temper'd partial praise;
Conscious the kept her native dignity,
Bold as her flights, and as her numbers free.
And fure, if e'er the mufe indulg'd her ftrains,
With just regard to grace heroic reigns,
Where could her glance a theme of triumph own
So dear to fame as George's trophy'd throne?
At whofe firm bafe thy fedfaft foul afpires
To wake a mighty nation's ancient fires :
Afpires to baffle Faction's fpecious claim,
Roufe Ergland's rage, and give her thunder aim:
Cace more the main her conqu'ring banners fweep,
Again her Commerce darkens all the deep.
Thy fix'd refolve renews each firm decree
That made, that kept of yore, thy country free. WHEN first the kingdom to thy virtues due
Call'd by thy voice, nor deaf to war's alarms,
Its willing youth the rural empire arms :
Again the lords of Albion's cultur'd plains
March the firm leaders of their faithful fwains;
As eft ftout archers, from the farm or fold,
Flam'd in the van of many a baron bold.
Rofe from the billowy deep in diftant view;
When Albion's ifle, old Ocean's peerless pride,
Tow'r'd in imperial state above the tide;
What bright ideas of the new domain
Form'd the fair profpect of thy promis'd reign
Nor thine the pomp of indolent debate,
The war of words, the fophiftries of state:
Nor frigid caution checks thy free defign,
Nor ftops thy ftream of eloquence divine:
For thine the privilege, on few beftow'd,
To feel, to think, to speak, for public good.
In vain Corruption calls her venal tribes;
One common caufe one common end prefcribes:
Nor fear nor fraud or fpares or fcreens the foc,
But fpirit prompts, and valour strikes the blow.
And well with confcious joy thy breast might
That Albion was ordain'd thy regal feat: [beat
Lo! this the land, where Freedom's facred rage
Has glow'd untam'd thro' many a martial age.
Here patriot Alfred, ftain'd with Danish blood,
Rear'd on one bafe the king's, the people's good:
Here Henry's archers fram'd the ftubborn bow
That laid Alanzon's haughty helmet low;
Here wak'd the flame, that ftill fuperior braves
The proudeft threats of Gaul's ambitious flaves ?
Here Chivalry, ftern school of valour old,
Her nobleft feats of knightly fame enroll'd;
O Pitt, while honour points thy lib'ral plan,
And o'er the Minifter exalts the Man,
fis congenial greets thy faithful fway,
Nor fcorns to bid a ftatelinan grace her lay.
For 'tis not Hers, by falfe connections drawn
At fplendid Slavery's fordid thrine to fawn ;
Each native effort of the feeling breast
To friends, to foes, in equal fear, fuppreft:
'Tis not for her to purchase or purfue
The phantom favours of the cringing crew:
More ufeful toils her ftudious hours engage,
And fairer leffons fill her spotlefs page:
Beneath ambition, but above difgrace,
With nobler arts the forms the rifing race:
With happier tasks, and lefs refin'd pretence,
In elder times, fhe woo'd Munificence
To rear her arched roofs in regal guife,
And lift her temples nearer to the skies;
Princes and prelates ftretch'd the focial hand
To form, diffufe, and fix, her high command:
From kings fhe claim'd, yet fcorn'd to feek, the
From kings, like George, benignant, juft, and
Lo, this her genuine lore.-Nor thou refuse
This humble prefent of no partial Muse
From that calm Bow'r, which nurs'd thy
In the pure precepts of Athenian truth:
Where fift the form of British Liberty
Beam'd in full radiance on thy mufing eye;
That form, whofe mien fublime, with equal awe
In the fame fhade unblemish'd Somers faw:
Where once (for well the lov'd the friendly grove
Which ev'ry claffic Grace had learn'd to rove)
Her whifpers wak'd fage Harrington to feign
The bleflings of her vitionary reign;
That reign, which now, no more an empty theme,
Adorns Philofophy's ideal dream,
But crowns at laft, beneath a George's fimile,
In full reality this favour'd ifle.
$65. On the Marriage of the King, MDCCLXI, to ber Majefty. T. WARTON.
* Trinity College, Oxford; in which alfo Lord Somers, and Sir James Harrington, author of the Oceana, were educated.
Heroic champions caught the clarion's call,
And throng'd the feaft in Edward's banner'd hall;
While chiefs, like George, approv'd in worth.
Unlock'd chafte Beauty's adamantine zone.
Lo! the fam'd ifle, which hails thy clofen fway.
What fertile fields her temp rate funs display!
Where Property fecures the confcious fwain,
And guards, while Plenty gives, the golden grain:
Hence with ripe ftores her villages abound,
Her airy downs with fcatter'd theep refound;
Frefli are her paftures with unceasing rills,
And future navies crown her darkfome hills.
To bear her formidable glory far,
Behold her opulence of hoarded war!
Sce, from her ports a thousand banners ftream;
On ev'ry coaft her vengeful lightnings gleam!
Meantime, remote from Ruin's armed Land,
In peaceful majcity her cities fend;
Whofe fplendid doines and bufe ftreets declare
Their firmest fort, a king's parental care.
And oh bleft Queen, if e'er the magic pow'rs
Of warbled truth have won thy mufing hours;
Here Poefy, from awful days of yore,
Has pour'd her genuine cifts of raptur'd lore.
Mid oaken bow'rs, with holy verdure wreath'd,
In Druid-fongs her folemn fpirit breath'd :
While cunning Bards at ancient banquets fung
Of paynim foes defied, and trophies hung.
Here Spenfer tun'd his myftic miuftrelfy,
And drefs'd in fairy robes a Queen like Thee.
Here, boldly mark'd with ev'ry living hue,
Nature's unbounded portrait Shakespeare drew:
But chief the dreadful group of human woes
The daring artift's tragic pencil chofe;
Explor'd the pangs that rend the royal breaft,
Thole wounds that lurk beneath the tiffued veft.
Lo! this the land, whence Milton's mufe of fire
High foar'd to steal from heaven a feraph's lyre;
And told the golden ties of wedded love
In facred Eden's amaranthine grove.
Thine too, majestic Bride, the favour'd clime, Where Science fits enfhrin'd in roofs fublime. O mark, how green her wood of ancient bays O'er Ifis' marge in many a chaplet strays ! Thither, if haply fome diftinguifh'd flow'r Of thete mix'd blooms from that ambrofial bow'r Might catch thy glance, and, rich in Nature's hue, Entwine thy diadem with honour due; If feemly gifts the train of Phoebus pay, To deck inperial Hymen's feftive day; Thither thyfelf fhall hatte, and mildly deign To tread with nymph-like step the confcious plain; Pleas'd in the mufe's nook, with decent pride, To throw the fceptred pall of state afide. Nor from the fhade fhall George be long away, Which claims Charlotta's love, and courts her ftay. Thefe are Britannia's praifes. Deign to trace With rapt reflection Freedom's fav'rite race! But though the gen'rous ifle, in arts and arms, Thus ftand fupreme in Nature's choiceft charms The George and Conqueft guard her fea-girt throne,
One happier bleffing fill the calls her own
And, proud to cull the fairest wreath of Fame, Crowns her chief honours with a Charlotte's
§66. On the Birth of the Prince of Wales. T. WARTON.
Written after the Ingellation at Wrador, in the fure year.
MPERIAL Dome of Edward wife and brave! Where warlike Honour's brightest banners
At whose proud Tilts, unmatch'd for hardy deeds, Heroic kings have frown'd on barbed feeds: Though now no more thy crefted chiefs advance In arm'd array, nor grasp the glitt'ring lance; Though Knighthood boats the martial pomp no
That grac'd its gorgeous feftivals of yore;
Say, confcicus Dome, if e'er thy mar fhail'd knights
So nobly deck'd their old ma efic rites
As when, high-thron'd amid thy trophy'd fhrine,
George fhone the leader of the gaiter'd line?
Yet future triumphs, Windfor, ftill remain;
Still may thy bow'rs receive as brave a traja:
For, to to Britain and her favour'd Pair
leaven's high command has fent a facred Heir!
Him the bold pattern of his patriot fize
Shall fill with early fame's immortal fire:
In life's fresh fpting cre buds the promis'd prime,
His thoughts fhall mount to virtue's meed fublime:
The patriot fire fhall catch, with fure prefage,
Each lib'ral omen of his op'ning age;
Then to thy courts fhall lead, with confcious joy,
In ftripling beauty's bloom, the princely boy;
There firmly wreathe the Braid of heavenly dye,
True valour's badge, around his tender thigh.
Meantime, thy royal piles that rife clate With many an antique tow'r, in maffy state, In the young champion's nufing mind thail raife Vaft images of Albion's elder days; While, as around his eager glance explores Thy chambers, rough with war's conftructed fiores, Rude helms, and bruifed fields, barbaric fpeits Of ancient chivalry's undaunted toils; Amid the dusky trappings hung on high, Young Edward's fable mail fhall frike his eye; Shall fire the youth to crown his riper years With rival Creffys, and a new Poitiers; On the fame wall, the fame triumphal base, His own victorious monuments to place.
Nor can a fairer kindred title move His emulative age to glory's love Than Edward, laureate prince. In letter'd truth, Oxford, fage mother, fchool'd his studious youth: Her fimple inftitutes and rigid lore The royal nurfling unreluctant bore; Nor fhunn'd, at penfive eve, with lonefume pace, The cloitter's moon-light-chequer'd floor to trace; Nor fcorn'd to mark the fun, at matins due, Stream through the ftoried windows holy ine.
And oh, Young Prince, be thine his moral praife; Nor feek in Belds of blood his warrior bays.
War has its charms terrific. Far and wide
When ftands th' embattled hoft in banner'd pride;
O'er the vext plain when the thril: clangors run,
And the long phalanx flathes in the fun;
When now no dangers of the deathful day
Mar the bright cene, nor break the firm array;
Full oft too rafhly glows with foad delight
The youthful breast, and alks the future fight;
Nor knows that Horror's form, a spectre wan,
Stalks, yet unfeen, along the gleamy van.
May no fuch rage be thine! no dazzling ray
Of fpecious fame thy ftedfalt feet betray!
Be thine domeftic glory's radiant calm,
Be thine the fceptre wreath'd with many a palm:
Be thine the throne with peaceful emblems hung,
The filver lyre to milder conqueft ftrung!
Inftead of glorious feats achiev'd in arms,
Bid rifing arts difplay their mimic charms:
Juft to thy country's fame, in tranquil days,
Record the patt, and roufe to future praife:
Before the public eye, in breathing brafs,
Bid thy fam'd father's mighty triumphs pals:
Swell the broad arch with haughty Cuba's fall,
And clothe with Minden's plain th' hiftoric hail.
Then mourn not, Edward's Dome, thune an-
Thy tournaments and lifted combats loft!
From Arthur's Board, no more, proud caftle,
Adventurous Valqur's gothic trophies tern!
Those elfin charras, that held in magic night
Its elder fame, and diam'd its genuine light,
At length diffolve in Truth's meridian ray,
And the brigh: Order burts to perfect day:
The myftic round, begirt with bolder peers,
On Virtue's bafe its refcued glory rears,
Sees Civil Prowels mightier acts achieve;
Sees meek Humanity diftrefs relieve;
Adopts the Worth that bids the conflict ceafe,
And claims its honours from the Chiefs of Peace.
67. Ode to Shop. T. WARTON. ON this my penfive pillow, gentle Sleep!
Defcend, in ail thy downy plumage draft:
Wipe with thy wing thele eyes that wake to weep,
And place thy crown of poppics on my breat.
Ofteep, my fenfes in oblivion's balın,
And footh my throbbing pulfe with lenient hand;
This tempeft of my boiling blood becalm!
Delpair grows mild at thy fupreme comma id.
Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom,
And fadly toiling through the tedious night,
I feek fweet flumber, while that virgin bloom,
For ever hov'ring, haunts my wretched fight.
Nor would the dawning day my forrows charm:
Black midnight, and the radiant neon, alike
To me appear, while with uplifted arm
Death ftands prepar'd, but still delays, to strike.
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main,
For fplendid care and guilty gain!
When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam
Strikes their low thatch with flanting gleam,
They rove abroad in ether blue,
To dip the feythe in fragrant dew;
The theaf to bind, the beech to fell,
That nodding fhades a craggy dell.
Midit gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
Wild nature's fweeteft notes they hear:
On green untrodden banks they view
The hyacinth's neglected huc:"
In their lone haunts and woodland rounds,
They ipy the fquirrel's airy bounds;
And startle from her afhen spray,
Acrofs the glen, the foreaming jay:
Each native charm their steps explore
Of Solitude's fequetter'd ftore.
For them the moon with cloudlefs ray
Mounts, to illume their homeward way:
Their weary fpirits to relieve,
The meadows incenfe breathe at eve.
No riot mars the fimple fare
That o'er a glimm'ring hearth they fhare:-
But when the curfeu's meafur'd roar
Duly, the dark'ning valleys o'er,
Has tcho'd from the diftant town,
They with no beds of cygnet-down,
No trophied canopies, to clofe
Their drooping eyes in quick repose.
Their little fons, who fpread the bloom
Of health ound the clay-built room,
Or thro' the primros'd coppice stray,
Or gambel in the new-mown hay;
Or quaintly braid the cowflip-twine,
Or drive afield the tar by kine;
O haften from the fultry hill
To loiter at the fhady rill;
§68. The Hamlet, written in Whichrwood Foreft.
THE hinds how bleft, who, ne'er beguild
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn-wild,
Or climb the tall pine's gloomy craft
Lo rob the raven's ancient neit.
Their humble porch with honeyed fow'rs
The curling woodbine's thade embow'rs:
From the trim garden's thymy mound
Their bees in bufy fwarms refound.
Nor fell Difcafe, before his time,
Haltes to confume life's golden prime:
But when their temples long have wore
1 he filver crown of treffes hoar;
As ftudious full calon peace to keep,
Beneath a flow'ry tuif they fleep.
§ 69. Ode. The First of April. T. WARTON.
WITH dalliance rude young Zephyr woos
Coy May. Full oft with kind excute
The boft rous boy the Fair denies,
Or with a fcornful fmile complies.
Mindful of diftier paft,
And thrinking at the northern blast,
The fleety form returning ftill,
The morning hoar and ev'ning chill;
Reluctant comes the timid Spring.
Scarce a bee, with airy ring,
Murmurs the bloffom'd boughs around,
That clothe the garden's fouthern bound :
Scarce a fickly ftraggling flow'r
Decks the rough caftle's rifted tow'r :
Scarce the hardy primrose peeps
From the dark dell's entangled steeps:
O'er the field of waving broom
Slowly fhoots the golden bloom:
And, but by fits, the furze-clad dale
Tinctures the tranfitory gale:
While from the fhrubb'ry's naked maze,
Where the vegetable blaze
Of Flora's brightest 'broidery fhone,
Ev'ry chequer'd charm is flown;
Save that the lilac hangs to view
Its bursting gems in clufters blue.
Scant along the ridgy land
The beans their new-born ranks expand;
The fresh-turn'd foil with tender blades
Thinly the fprouting barley fhades:
Fringing the forest's devious edge,
Half rob'd appears the hawthorn hedge;
Or to the distant eye difplays
Weakly green its budding fprays.
The fwallow, for a moment feen,
Skims in hafte the village green :
From the grey moor, on feeble wing,
The fereaning plovers idly spring:
The butterfly, gay-painted foon,
Explores awhile the tepid noon,
And fondly trufts its tender dyes
To fickle funs and flatt'ring fkies.
Fraught with a tranfient, frozen show'r,
If a cloud should haply low'r,
Sailing o'er the landfcape dark,
Mute on a fudden is the lark;
But when gleams the fun again
O'er the pearl-befprinkled plain,
And from behind his wat'ry veil
Looks through the thin-defcending hail,
She mounts, and, lefs'ning to the fight,
Salutes the blythe return of light,
And high her tuneful track purfues
Mid the dim rainbow's scatter'd hues.
Where in venerable rows
Widely waving oaks inclofe
The moat of yonder antique hall,
Swarm the rooks with clamorous call;
And, to the toils of nature true,
Wreath their capacious nelts anew.
Mufing through the lawny park,
The lonely poet loves to mark
in faint degrees
Tinge the tall groups of various trees:
While, carclefs of the changing year,
The pine cerulean, never fear,
Towers diftinguish'd from the reft,
And proudly vaunts her winter vest,
Within fome whispering ofier ifle,
Where Glym's low banks neglected fimile;
And each trim meadow ftill retains
The wintry torrent's oozy ftains:
Beneath a willow, long forfook,
The fisher feeks his cuftom'd nook;
And bursting thro' the crackling fedge
That crowns the current's cavern'd edge,
He ftartles from the bordering wood
The bashful wild-duck's early brood.
O'er the broad downs, a novel race,
Frisk the lambs, with faltering pace,
And with eager bleatings fill
The fofs that fkirts the beacon'd hill.
His free-born vigour yet unbroke
To lordly man's ufurping yoke,
The bounding colt forgets to play:
Bafking beneath the noontide ray,
And ftretch'd among the daifies, pride
Of a green dingle's floping fide:
While far bencath, where nature spreads
Her boundlefs length of level meads,
In loofe luxuriance taught to ftray
A thousand tumbling rills inlay
With filver veins the vale, or pafs
Redundant thro' the fparkling grafs.
Yet, in thefe prefages rude,
Midft her penfive folitude,
Fancy, with prophetic glance,
Sces the teeming months advance;
The field, the foreft, green and gay,
The dappled flope, the tedded hay;
Sces the reddening orchard blow,
The harveft wave, the vintage flow;
Sees June unfold his gloffy robe
Of thoufand hues o'er all the globe;
Sees Ceres grafp her crown of corn,
And plenty load her ample horn.
§ 70. Odle. The Suicide. T. WARTON.
BENEATH the beech, whofe branches bar
Smit with the lightning's vivid glare,
O'erhang the craggy road,
And whistle hollow as they wave;
Within a folitary grave,
A wretched Suicide holds his accurs'd abode.
Lower'd the grim morn, in murky dies
Damp mifts involv'd the fcowling fkies,
And dimm'd the struggling day; As by the brook that ling ring laves Yon ruth-grown moor with fable waves, Full of the dark refolve he took his fullen way. I mark'd his defultory pace,
His geftures ftrange, and varying face, With many a mutter'd found;
And ah! too late aghaft I view'd The reeking blade, the hand embru’d: He fell, and groaning grafp'd in agony the ground.
Full many a melancholy night
He watch'd the flow return of light; And fought the pow'rs of sleep, To fpread a momentary calm O'er his fad couch, and in the balm Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep.
Full oft, unknowing and unknown,
He wore his endless noons alone,
Amid the autumnal wood :
Oft was he wont, in hafty fit,
Abrupt the focial board to quit,
And gaze with eager glance upon the tumbling
Beck'ning the wretch to torments new,
Defpair, for ever in his view,
A fpectre pale, appear'd;
While, as the fhades of eve arofe
And brought the day's unwelcome close,
More horrible and huge her giant-shape she rear'd.
Is this,' mistaken Scorn will cry,
• Is this the youth, whose genius high
Could build the genuine rhyme? Whofe bofom mild the fav'iing Mufe • Had stor'd with all her ample views, Parent of faireft deeds, and purpofes fublime?' Ah! from the Mufe that bofom mild By treach'rous magic was beguil'd,
To ftrike the deathful blow: She fill'd his foft ingenuous mind With many a feeling too refin 'd, And rous'd to livelier pangs his wakeful sense of
Though doom'd hard penury to prove, And the fharp ftings of hopeless love;
To griefs congenial prone,
More wounds than nature gave he knew, While mifery's form his fancy drew In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own. Then with not o'er his earthly tomb The baleful nightfhade's lurid bloom To drop its deadly dew: Nor, oh! forbid the twisted thorn, That rudely binds his turf forlorn, With fpng's green-fwelling buds to What though no marble-piled bust Adorn his defolated duft,
With speaking fculpture wrought? Pity fhall woo the weeping Nine To build a vifionary thrine, Hung with unfading flow'rs, from fairy regions
What though refus'd each chanted rite? Here viewless mourners fhall delight
To touch the fhadowy thell:
And Petrarch's harp, that wept the doom Of Laura, loft in early bloom, In melancholy tones fhall ring his penfive knell.
To footh a lone, unhallow'd shade,
This votive dirge fad duty paid,
Within an ivy'd nook:
Sudden the half-funk orb of day
More radiant fhot its parting ray,
And thus a cherub-voice my charm'd attention
Juft Heaven, man's fortitude to prove,
• Permits through life at large to rove
" The tribes of hell-born woe:
Forbear, fond bard, thy partial praise;
Nor thus for guilt in fpecious lays
The wreath of glory twine:
In vain with hues of gorgeous glow
Gay Fancy gives her veft to flow, [confine. • Unless Truth's matron-hand the floating folds
Yet the fame Pow'r that wifely fends 'Life's fierceft ills, indulgent lends • Religion's golden fhield to break th' embattled
'Her aid divine had lull'd to reft "Yon foul felf-murtherer's throbbing breast, And stay'd the rifing storm: Had bade the fun of hope appear To gild the darken'd hemifphere, And give the wonted bloom to nature's blasted
Vain man! 'tis Heaven's prerogative
To take, what firft it deign'd to give,
Thy tributary breath:
In awful expectation plac'd,
§ 71. Ode. Sent to a Friend on his leaving a fa-
vourite Village in Hampshire. T. WARTON.
H, mourn thy lov'd retreat! No more
Shall claffic fteps thy fcenes explore I
When morn's pale rays but faintly peop
O'er yonder oak-crown'd airy fteep,
Who now fhall climb its brows, to view
Thy length of landscapes ever new;
Where Summer flings, in carclefs pride,
Her varied vefture far and wide?
Who mark, beneath, each village-charm,
Or grange, or elm-encircled farm:
The flinty dove-cote's crowded roof,
Watch'd by the kite that fails aloof:
The tufted pines, whofe umbrage tall
Darkens the long-deferted hall:"
The vet'ran beech, that on the plain
Collc&ts at eve the playful train:
The cot that fmokes with early fire,
The low-roof 'd fane's embofom'd fpire?
Who now fhall indolently stray
Through the deep foreft's tangled way;
Pleas'd at his cuftom'd talk to find
The well-known hoary-treffed hind,
That toils with feeble hands, to glean
Of wither'd boughs his pittance mean?
Who mid thy nooks of hazle fit,
Loft in fome melancholy fit;
And lift 'ning to the raven's croak,
The diftant fail, the falling oak?
Who, through the funfhine and the show'r,
Defcry the rainbow-painted tow'r?
Who, wandering at return of May,
Catch the firft cuckow's vernal lay?
Who, mufing waste the fummer hour,
Where high o'er-arching trees embow'r
The grassy lane, so rarely pac'd,
With azure flow'rets idly grac'd?
Unnotic'd now, at twilight's dawn
Returning reapers crofs the lawn:
Nor fond attention loves to note
The wether's bell from folds remote:
While own'd by no poetic eye,
Thy penfive evening fhade the fky!
For, lo! the bard who rapture found
From ev'ry rural fight or found;
Whofe genius warm, and judgment chaste,
No charm of genuine nature pass'd ;
Await thy doom, nor impious hafte To pluck from God's right hand his inftru'ments of death.'