I love the bold uncompromising mind, Whose principles are fix’d, whose views defined; Who scouts and scorns, in canting CANDOUR’S spite, All _taste in morals_, innate sense of right, And Nature’s impulse, all uncheck’d by art, And feelings fine, that float about the heart: Content, for good men’s guidance, bad men’s awe, On moral truth to rest, and Gospel law. 230 Who owns, when Traitors feel th’ avenging rod, Just retribution, and the hand of GOD; Who hears the groans through _Olmütz_’ roofs that ring, Of him who mock’d, misled, betray’d his King— Hears unappall’d, though Faction’s zealots preach, Unmov’d, unsoften’d by FITZPATRICK’S Speech.[313] That Speech on which the melting Commons hung, “While truths divine came mended from _his_ tongue”; How loving husband clings to duteous wife,— How pure Religion soothes the ills of life,— 240 How Popish ladies trust their pious fears And naughty actions in their chaplains’ ears.— Half novel and half sermon, on it flow’d; With pious zeal THE OPPOSITION glow’d; And as o’er each the soft infection crept, Sigh’d as he whin’d, and as he whimper’d, wept;— E’en CURWEN[314] dropt a sentimental tear, And stout ST. ANDREW yelp’d a softer “Hear!” · · · · · Oh! nurse of crimes and fashions! which in vain Our colder servile spirits would attain, 250 How do we ape thee, _France!_ but, blundering still, Disgrace the pattern by our want of skill. The borrow’d step our awkward gait reveals: (As clumsy COURTENAY[315] mars the verse he steals.) How do we ape thee, _France!_—nor claim alone Thy arts, thy tastes, thy morals, for our own, 260 But to thy WORTHIES render homage due, Their[316] “hair-breadth scapes” with anxious interest view; Statesmen and Heroines whom this age adores, Though plainer times would call them Rogues and Whores. 260 See LOUVET, patriot, pamphleteer, and sage, Tempering with amorous fire his virtuous rage. Form’d for all tasks, his various talents see, The luscious Novel, the severe Decree. Then mark him welt’ring in his nasty sty, Bare his lewd transports to the public eye. Not _his_ the love in silent groves that strays, Quits the rude world, and shuns the vulgar gaze. In LODOISKA’S full possession blest, One craving void still aches within his breast; 270 Plunged in the filth and fondness of her arms, Not to himself alone he stints her charms; Clasp’d in each other’s foul embrace they lie, But know no joy, unless the World stands by. The fool of vanity, for her alone He lives, loves, writes, and dies but to be known.