Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes
Their progress in the road of science; blinds
The eyefight 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 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, feeing thou art free
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 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 fweetness, without which no pleasure is
In converse, either starv'd by could reserve,
Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a fenseless 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 feek 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 excufe
That it belongs to freemen, would disgust
And shock me. I fhould then, with double pain,
Feel all the rigor of thy fickle clime;
And if I must bewail the bleffing loft,
For which our Hampdens and our Sidney's 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 lofs 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, themselves the flaves of lust,
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 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 flights the charities, for whose dear fake That country, if at all, must be belov'd?
'Tis therefore fober and good men are fad For England's glory, feeing it wax pale And fickly, while her champions wear their hearts So loose to private duty, that no brain, Healthful and undisturb'd by factious fumes, Can dream them trufty to the genʼral weal. Such were not they of old, whofe temper'd blades Difpers'd the fhackles of ufurp'd controul,
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 domestic sphere, Shone brighter ftill, once call'd to public view. 'Tis therefore many, whose fequefter'd lot Forbids their interference, looking on,
Anticipate perforce fome dire event;
And seeing the old caftle of the ftate,
That promis'd once more firmness, so affail'd,
That all its tempeft-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 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 asks where the fabric stood,
And in the duft, 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 powers
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 mankind,
And feal'd with the fame token. It is held
By charter, and that charter fan&tion'd fure
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath
And promise of a God. His other gifts
All bear the royal ftamp that speaks them his,
And are auguft, but this tranfcends 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 fo well,
And made so sparking what was dark before.
But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true,
Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene,
Might well fuppofe th' artificer divine
Meant it eternal, had he not himself
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,
Whofe lying heart disputes against a God;
Not fo the labours of his love: they shine
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.
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