Beyond that mark is treafon. He is ours,
T'adminifter, to guard, t' adorn the state,
But not to warp or change it. We are his,
To ferve him nobly in the common cause,
True to the death, but not to be his flaves.
Mark now the diff'rence, ye that boaft your love
Of kings, between your loyalty and ours.
We love the man; the paltry pageant you.
We the chief patron of the commonwealth;
You the regardless author of its woes.
We, for the fake of liberty, a king;
You chains and bondage, for a tyrant's fake.
Our love is principle, and has its root
In reafon, is judicious, manly, free;
Yours, a blind inftinct, crouches to the rod,
And licks the foot that treads it in the duft.
Were kingship as true treasure as it feems,
Sterling, and worthy of a wife man's wish,
I would not be a king to be belov'd
Caufelefs, and daub'd with undifcerning praife,
Where love is mere attachment to the throne,
Not to the man who fills it as he ought.
Whose freedom is by fuff'rance, and at will
Of a fuperior, he is never free.
Who lives, and is not weary of a life
Expos'd to manacles, deferves them well.
The state that strives for liberty, though foil'd,
And forc'd t'abandon what she bravely fought,
Deferves at least applause for her attempt,
And pity for her lofs. But that's a caufe.
Not often unfuccefsful: pow'r ufurp'd
Is weakness when oppos'd; confcious of wrong,
'Tis pufillanimous and prone to flight.
But flaves that once conceive the glowing thought
Of freedom, in that hope itself poffefs
All that the conteft calls for; fpirit, ftrength,
The fcorn of danger, and united hearts,
The fureft prefage of the good they seek.*
Then fhame to manhood, and opprobrious more
To France than all her loffes and defeats,
Old or of later date, by fea or land,
Her house of bondage, worse than that of old
Which God aveng'd on Pharaoh-the Baftile,
Ye horrid tow'rs, th' abode of broken hearts,
Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair,
That monarchs have fupplied from age to age
With mufic fuch as fuits their fov'reign ears,
The fighs and groans of miferable men!
There's not an English heart that would not leap
The author hopes that he shall not be cenfured for unneceffary warmth upon fo interesting a subject. He is aware that it is become almost fashionable to ftigmatize fuch fentiments as no better than empty declamation; but it is an ill fymptom, and peculiar to modern times.
To hear that ye were fall'n at laft; to know
That ev'n our enemies, fo oft employ'd
In forging chains for us, themselves were free.
For he who values liberty, confines
His zeal for her predominance within
No narrow bounds; her cause engages him
Wherever pleaded. "Tis the cause of man.
There dwell the most forlorn of human kind,
Immur'd though unaccus'd, condemn'd un-
try'd,
Cruelly fpar'd, and hopeless of escape.
There, like the vifionary emblem seen
By him of Babylon, life stands a stump,
And filleted about with hoops of brafs,
Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are
To count the hour-bell and expect no change;
And ever, as the fullen found is heard,
Still to reflect, that though a joyless note
To him whofe moments all have one dull pace,
Ten thoufand rovers in the world at large.
Account it mufic; that it fummons fome
To theatre, or jocund feaft or ball;
The wearied hireling finds it a release
From labour; and the lover, who has chid
Its long delay, feels ev'ry welcome ftroke
Upon his heart-strings, trembling with delight— To fly for refuge from diftracting thought
To fuch amusements as ingenious woe
Contrives hard-fhifting and without her tools-
To read engraven on the mouldy walls,
In ftagg'ring types, his predeceffor's tale,
A fad memorial, and fubjoin his own-
To turn purveyor to an overgorg'd
And bloated spider, till the pamper'd peft.
Is made familiar, watches his approach,
Comes at his call, and ferves him for a friend-
To wear out time in numb'ring to and fro
The ftuds that thick embofs his iron door,
Then downward and then upwards, then aflant
And then alternate with a fickly hope
By dint of change to give his tasteless task
Some relifh, till the fum exactly found
In all directions, he begins again
Oh comfortless existence! hemm'd around
With woes, which who, that fuffers, would not kneel
And beg for exile, or the pangs of death?
That man fhould thus encroach on fellow man,
Abridge him of his just and native rights, i
Eradicate him, tear him from his hold
Upon th' endearments of domestic life
And focial, nip his fruitfulness and use,
And doom him for perhaps an heedless word
To barrennefs, and folitude, and tears,
Moves indignation; makes the name of king
(Of king whom fuch 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 luftre 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 eye-fight of discov'ry, and begets,
In those that fuffer 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 fqueez'd
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 disposes much
All hearts to fadness, and none more than mine;
Thine unadult'rate manners are less foft
And plaufible than focial life requires,
And thou haft 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
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