EPILOGUE
.
THE
anxious
struggle
happily
o'erpast
,
And
ev'ry
party
satisfy'd
at
last
;
It
now
remains
to
make
one
short
essay
,
And
urge
the
moral
lesson
in
the
play
.
In
arts
long
since
has
Britain
been
renown'd
,
In
arms
high
honour'd
,
and
in
letters
crown'd
:
The
same
great
goddess
who
so
nobly
sung
.
In
Shakespear's
strains
,
and
honey'd
o'er
his
tongue
,
Their
deathless
Marlbro'
to
the
triumph
led
,
And
wreath'd
eternal
laurels
round
his
head
;
Yet
tho'
the
trump
of
never-dying
fame
Strikes
heav'n's
high
arches
with
the
British
name
;
Tho'
on
the
sands
of
Africa
it
glows
,
Or
casts
a
day-light
on
the
Zemblian
snows
;
Still
there
are
faults
in
Britain
to
be
found
,
Which
spring
as
freely
as
in
common
ground
.
—
We
are
too
gay
,
—
they
frequently
too
sad
;
—
We
run
stark
wild
;
—
they
melancholy
mad
;
Extremes
of
either
reason
will
condemn
,
Nor
join
with
us
,
nor
vindicate
with
them
.
The
human
genius
,
like
revolving
suns
,
An
equal
circuit
in
the
bosom
runs
:
And
thro'
the
various
climates
where
'tis
plac'd
,
Must
strike
out
new
diversities
of
taste
,
To
one
grand
point
eternally
it
leans
,
Howe'er
it
warps
or
differs
in
the
means
.
Hence
on
no
nation
let
us
turn
our
eyes
,
And
idly
raise
it
spotless
to
the
skies
;
Nor
still
more
idly
let
our
censures
fall
,
Since
knaves
and
madmen
may
be
found
in
all
.
Here
then
we
rest
,
nor
further
can
contend
,
For
since
the
best
will
find
some
fault
to
mend
,
Let
us
,
where'er
the
virtues
shed
their
fire
,
With
fervor
reverence
,
and
with
zeal
admire
;
Exert
our
care
the
gath'ring
blaze
to
trace
,
And
mark
the
progress
only
,
not
the
place
:
Confess
alike
the
peasant's
and
the
king's
,
Nor
once
consider
in
what
soil
it
springs
.