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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

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

hearts

1

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

fons

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,

Anticipate

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.

powers

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

: kind,

And feal'd with the fame token. It is held
By charter, and that charter fanction'd fure
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath

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And promife of a God. His other gifts

All

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

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

fins

Infect

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