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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

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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.

powers

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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