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(Of king whom such prerogative can please)
As dreadful as the Manichean god,
Ador'd through fear, strong only to destroy.

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flow'r Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road of science; blinds The eyesight of discov'ry; and begets, In those that suffer it, a sordid mind Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit To be the tenant of man's noble form.

Thee therefore still, blame-worthy as thou art,
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez’d
By public exigence till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free:

BOOK V.

THE WINTER MORNING WALK.

207

My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude,
Replete with vapours, and disposes much
All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine:

Thine unadult'rate manners are less soft

And plausible than social life requires,
And thou hast need of discipline and art
To give thee what politer France receives
From Nature's bounty—that humane address
And sweetness, without which no pleasure is
In converse, either starv'd by cold reserve,
Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl:
Yet, being free, I love thee: for the sake

Of that one feature can be well content,

Disgrac'd as thou hast been, poor as thou art,
To seek no sublunary rest beside.
But, once enslav’d, 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

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That it belongs to freemen, would disgust
And shock me. I should then, with double pain,
Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;
And, if I must bewail the blessing lost,
For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,

I would at least bewail it under skies

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Milder, among a people less austere;
In scenes which, having never known me free,
Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.
Do I forebode impossible events,
And tremble at vain dreams? Heav'n grant I may!
But th' age of virtuous politics is past,
And we are deep in that of cold pretence.
Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere,

And we too wise to trust them. He that takes

Deep in his soft credulity the stamp
Design’d by loud declaimers on the part
Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust,

Incurs derision for his

easy

faith

And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough:

BOOK V.

THE WINTER MORNING WALK.

209

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 slights the charities, for whose dear sake
That country, if at all, must be belov'd ?

'Tis therefore sober and good men are sad For England's glory, seeing it wax pale And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts So loose to private duty, that no brain, Healthful and undisturb’d by factious fumes, Can dream them trusty to the gen'ral weal. Such were they not of old, whose temper'd blades Dispers’d the shackles of usurp'd control,

And hew'd them link from link: then Albion's

sons

Were sons indeed; they felt a filial beart
Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs;

And, shining each in his domestic sphere,
Shone brighter still, once call’d to public view.
'Tis therefore many, whose sequester'd lot
Forbids their interference, looking on,
Anticipate perforce some dire event;
And, seeing the old castle of the state,
That promis'd once more firmness, so assail'd
That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake,
Stand motionless expectants of its fall.

All has its date below; the fatal hour

Was register'd in heav'n ere time began.
We turn to dust, 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 distant age asks where the fabric stood;
And in the dust, sifted and search'd in vain,

The undiscoverable secret sleeps.

But there is yet a liberty, unsung

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