And beg for exile, or the pangs of death?
That man fhould thus encroach on fellow man,
Abridge him of his juft and native rights, Eradicate him, tear him from his hold Upon the endearments of domeftic life And focial, nip his fruitfulness and use, And doom him for perhaps an heedless word To barrenness, and folitude, and tears, Moves indignation; makes the name of king (Of king whom fuch prerogative can please) As dreadful as the Manichean god, Adored through fear, ftrong only to deftroy.
'Tis liberty alone, that gives the flower Of fleeting life its luftre and perfume;
And we are weeds without it. All conftraint, Except what wifdom lays on evil men, Is evil: hurts the faculties, impedes
Their progress in the road of science; blinds The eyefight of discovery; and begets
In those that suffer it a fordid mind
Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit
To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Thee therefore ftill, blame-worthy as thou art,
With all thy lofs of empire, and though squeezed By public exigence till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state, Thee I account ftill happy, and the chief Among the nations, seeing thou art free; My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude, Replete with vapours, and difpofes much
All hearts to fadness, and none more than mine: Thine unadulterate manners are lefs foft And plaufible than focial life requires, And thou haft need of difcipline and art: To give thee what politer France receives From nature's bounty-that humane addrefs And sweetness, without which no pleasure is In converfe, either ftarved by cold reserve, Or flushed with fierce difpute, a senseless brawl: Yet being free I love thee: for the fake
Of that one feature can be well content,
Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art, To feek no fublunary reft befide.
But once enflaved, farewell! I could endure Chains no where patiently; and chains at home, Where I am free by birthright, not at all.
Then what were left of roughness in the grain
Of British natures, wanting its excuse
That it belongs to freemen, would difguft And fhock me. I fhould then with double pain Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;
And, if I muft bewail the bleffing loft,
For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, I would at leaft bewail it under skies Milder, among a people lefs auftere;
In scenes, which having never known me free, Would not reproach me with the lofs I felt. Do I forebode impoffible events,
And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may! But the age of virtuous politics is past,
And we are deep in that of cold pretence.
Patriots are grown too fhrewd to be fincere, And we too wife to truft them. He that takes Deep in his foft credulity the ftamp Defigned by loud declaimers on the part Of liberty, themselves the flaves of luft, Incurs derifion for his easy faith
And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough.: For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not? Can he love the whole Who loves no part? He be a nation's friend
Who is in truth the friend of no man there? Can he be strenuous in his country's cause, Who flights the charities, for whose dear fake That country, if at all, must be beloved?
'Tis therefore fober and good men are fad For England's glory, seeing it was pale And fickly, while her champions wear their hearts So loose to private duty, that no brain, Healthful and undisturbed by factious fumes, Can dream them trufty to the general weal. Such were not they of old, whose tempered blades Dispersed the shackles of ufurped control,
And hewed them link from link: then Albion's fons Were fons indeed; they felt a filial heart Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs; And, fhining each in his domeftic fphere, Shone brighter ftill, once called to public view. 'Tis therefore many, whose fequestered lot Forbids their interference, looking on, Anticipate perforce fome dire event;
And, feeing the old caftle of the state,
That promised once more firmness, so affailed That all its tempeft-beaten turrets shake,
Stand motionless expectants of its fall. All has its date below; the fatal hour Was registered in heaven ere time began. We turn to duft, and all our mightiest works Die too: the deep foundations that we lay, Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains. We build with what we deem eternal rock: A diftant age afks where the fabric ftood; And in the duft, fifted and searched in vain, The undiscoverable fecret fleeps.
But there is yet a liberty, unfung By poets, and by fenators unpraised, Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the Of earth and hell confederate take away: A liberty, which perfecution, fraud, Oppreffion, prifons, have no power to bind; Which whofo taftes can be enslaved no more. 'Tis liberty of heart derived from heaven,
Bought with HIS blood, who gave it to mankind, And fealed with the fame token. It is held By charter, and that charter fanctioned sure By the unimpeachable and awful oath And promife of a God. His other gifts
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