In converse, either stary'd by cold reserve, Or flush'd with fierce difpute, a fenfeless brawl; Yet being free, I love thee: for the fake Of that one feature, can be well content, Difgrac'd as thou hast been, poor as thou art, To feck no fublunary rest befide.
But once enflav'd, farewel! 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 disgust And fhock me. I fhould then, with double pain, Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;
And if I must bewail the bleffing loft,
For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, I would at least bewail it under skies
Milder, among a people lefs auftere,
In fcenes which, having never known me free, Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. Do I forebode impoffible 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 fhrewd to be fincere, And we too wife to trust them. He that takes Deep in his foft credulity, the stamp,
Defign'd by loud declaimers on the part Of liberty, themfelves the flaves of luft, f Incurs derifion for his eafy faith
And lack of knowledge, and with caufe 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 caufe, dw Who flights the charities, for whose dear fake That country, if at all, muft be belov'd?
'Tis therefore fober and good men are fad For England's glory, seeing it wax pale And fickly, while her champions wear their
So loofe to private duty, that no brain, Healthful and undifturb'd by factious fumes, Can dream them trufty to the gen'ral weak. Such were not they of old, whofe temper'd blades Difpers'd the fhackles of ufurp'd controul, **'a And hew'd them link from link: then Albion's
Were fons indeed; they felt a filial heart Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs, And, fhining each in his domeftic sphere, Shone brighter ftill, once call'd to public view. 'Tis therefore many, whofe fequefter'd lot Forbids their interference, looking on,
Anticipete perforce fome dire event; And seeing the old caftle of the state, That promis'd once more firmness, so affail'd, That all its tempeft-beaten turrets shake, Stand motionlefs, expectants of its fall. All has its date below; the fatal hour Was regifter'd in heav'n 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 stood, And in the dust, fifted and search'd in vain, The undiscoverable fecret fleeps.
But there is yet a liberty unfung By poets, and by fenators unprais'd, Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the Of earth and hell confed'rate take away. A liberty, which perfecution, fraud, Oppreffion, prifons, have no power to bind, Which whofo taftes can be enflav'd no more. 'Tis liberty of heart, derived from heav'n, Bought with HIS blood who gave it to man
And feal'd with the fame token. It is held By charter, and that charter fanction'd fure By th' unimpeachable and awful oath
And promife of a God. His other gifts
All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his, And are auguft, but this transcends them all. His other works, this vifible difplay Of all-creating energy and might,
Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the word That, finding an interminable space Unoccupied, has filled the void so well, And made fo fparkling what was dark before. But thefe are not his glory. Man, 'tis true, Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene, Might well suppose th' artificer divine Meant it eternal, had he not himfelf Pronounc'd it tranfient, glorious as it is, And still defigning a more glorious far, Doom'd it, as infufficient for his praise. These therefore are occafional and pass; Form'd for the confutation of the fool, Whose lying heart disputes against a God; Not fo the labours of his love: they fhine In other heav'ns than thefe that we behold, And fade not. There is paradife that fears No forfeiture, and of its fruits he fends Large prelibation oft to faints below. Of these the first in order, and the pledge And confident affurance of the reft, Is Liberty. A flight into his arms Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way,
A clear escape from tyrannizing luft, And full immunity from penal woe.
Chains are the portion of revolted man, Stripes and a dungeon; and his body ferves The triple purpose. In that fickly, foul, Opprobrious refidence, he finds them all. Propenfe his heart to idols, he is held In filly dotage on created things, Careless of their Creator. And that low And fordid gravitation of his pow'rs
To a vile clod, fo draws him, with fuch force Refiftlefs from the center he should seek, That he at laft forgets it. All his hopes Tend downward, his ambition is to fink, To reach a depth profounder ftill, and still Profounder, in the fathomless abyss Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. But ere he gain the comfortlefs repose He feeks, and acquiefcence of his foul In heav'n-renouncing exile, he endures→→→ What does he not? from lufts oppos'd in vain, And felf-reproaching confcience. He forefees The fatal iffue to his health, fame, peace, Fortune and dignity; the lofs of all That can ennoble man, and make frail life, Short as it is, fupportable. Still worse,
Far worse than all the plagues with which his
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