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In converse, either stary'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 feek no sublunary rest:befide.
But once enslav'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 disguft
And shock me. I should then, with double pain,
Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;
And if I must bewail the blessing loft,
For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,
I would at least bewail it under skies
Milder, among a people less auftere,
In scenes 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
But th' age of virtuous politics is past,
And we are deep in that of cold pretence.
Patriots are grown too shrewd to be fincere,
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, themfelves the flaves of luft,
Incurs derifion for his eafy 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 nó 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, i
Who flights the charities, for whose dear fake
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 fickly, while' her champions wear their
hearts So loose to private daty, that no brain, Healthful and undifturb’d by factious fumes, Can dream them trusty to the gen'ral weal Such were not they of old, whose temper'd blades. Difpers'd the shackles of usurp'd controul, 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, shining each in his domestic sphere, Shone brighter ftill, once call'd to public view. 'Tis therefore many, whose fequester'd lot! Forbids their interference, looking on,
Anticipete perforce fome dire event ;
And seeing the old castle of the state,
That promis' once more firmness, so affaild,
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 diftant age asks where the fabric stood,
And in the dust, fifted and search'd in vain,
The undiscoverable secret sleeps.
But there is yet a liberty unsung
By poets, and by senators unprais'd,
Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the powers
Of earth and hell confed'rate take away.
A liberty, which persecution, fraud,
Oppreffion, prisons, have no power to bind,
Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more.
l'is liberty of heart, derived from heav'n,
Bought with HIS blood who gave it to man-
And seal'd with the same token. It is held
By charter, and that charter fanction'd fure
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath
And promise of a God. His other gifts
All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his,
And are august, but this transcends them all.
His other works, this vifible display
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 so sparkling wlaat was dark before.
But thefe are not his glory. Man, 'tis true,
Smit with the beauty of fo fair a scene,
Might well suppose th' artificer divine
Meant it eternal, had he not himself
Pronounc'd it tranfient, glorious as it is,
And still designing a more glorious far,
Doom'd it, as insufficient for his praise.
These therefore are occasional and pass ;
Form'd for the confutation of the fool,
Whose lying heart disputes against a God ;
Not so the labours of his love : they fhine
In other heav'ns than these 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 assurance of the rest,
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 residence, he finds them all.
Propense 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, so draws him, with such force
Refiftless from the center he should seek,
That he at last forgets it. All his hopes
Tend downward, his ambition is to fink,
To reach a depth profounder still, and still
Profounder, in the fathomless abyss
Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death..
But ere he gain the comfortless repose
He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul
In heav'n-renouncing exile, he endures
What does he not ? from lufts oppos'd in vain,
And self-reproaching conscience. He foresees
The fatal iffue to his health, fame, peace,
Fortune and dignity ; the loss of all
That can ennoble man, and make frail life,
Short as it is, supportable. Still worse,
Far worse than all the plagues with which his