Of provocation giv'n, or wrong sustain'd,
And force the beggarly last doit by means

315

That his own humour dictates, from the clutch
Of Poverty, that thus he may procure

His thousands, weary of penurious life,

A splendid opportunity to die?

320

Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old
Jotham ascrib'd to his assembled trees

In politick convention) put your trust
I' th' shadow of a bramble, and, reclin'd

In fancied peace beneath his dang'rous branch,
Rejoice in him, and celebrate his sway,

325

Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence springs
Your self-denying zeal, that holds it good
To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang

His thorns with streamers of continual praise?
We too are friends to loyalty. We love
The king who loves the law, respects his bounds,
And reigns content within them: him we serve
Freely and with delight, who leaves us free:
But recollecting still that he is man,

330

335

We trust him not too far. King though he be,

And king in England too, he may be weak

And vain enough to be ambitious still;
May exercise amiss his proper pow'rs,

Or covet more than freemen choose to grant !
Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours,
T'administer, to guard, t' adorn the state,
But not to warp or change it. We are his,
To serve him nobly in the common cause,
True to the death; but not to be his slaves.
Mark now the diff'rence, ye that boast your love

340

345

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:

350

We, for the sake of liberty, a king;

You, chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake:

Our love is principle, and has its root
In reason; is judicious, manly, free;

Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod,
And licks the foot that treads it in the dust.
Were kingship as true treasure as it seems,
Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish,
I would not be a king to be belov'd

355

Causeless, and daub'd with undiscerning praise,

360

Where love is mere attachment to the throne,
Not to the man who fills it as he ought.

Whose freedom is by suffrance, and at will' Of a superiour, he is never free.

Who lives, and is not weary of a life

Expos'd to manacles, deserves them well.

365

The state that strives for liberty, though foil'd,
And forc'd to abandon what she bravely sought,
Deserves at least applause for her attempt,
And pity for her loss. But that's a cause
Not often unsuccessful: pow'r usurp'd

Is weakness when oppos'd; conscious of wrong,
'Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight.

But slaves, that once conceive the glowing thought Of freedom, in that hope itself possess

All that the contest calls for; spirit, strength,

370

375

The scorn of danger, and united hearts ;

The surest presage of the good they seek.*

Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more

To France than all her losses and defeats,
Old or of later date, by sea or land,
Her house of bondage, worse than that of old
Which God aveng'd on Pharaoh-the Bastile
Ye horrid tow'rs, th' abode of broken hearts:
Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair,
That monarchs have supplied from age to age

380

385

*The author hopes that he shall not be censured for unnecessary warmth upon so interesting a subject. He is aware, that it is become almost fashionable, to stigmatize such sentiments as no better than empty declamation; but it is an ill symptom, and peculiar to modern times.

With musick, such as suits their sov'reign ears-
The sighs and groans of miserable men !

There's not an English heart that would not leap

To hear that ye were fall'n at last; to know
That e'en our enemies, so oft employ'd

390

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

395

Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man.

There dwell the most forlorn of human kind,
Immur'd though unaccus'd, condemn'd untried,
Cruelly spar'd, and hopeless of escape.
There, like the visionary emblem seen
By him of Babylon, life stands a stump,

400

And, filleted about with hoops of brass,

Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are gone.

To count the hour-bell and expect no change;

And ever as the sullen sound is heard,

405

Still to reflect, that, though a joyless note

To him whose moments all have one dull pace,

Ten thousand rovers in the world at large

Account it musick; that it summons some

To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball;

410

The wearied hireling finds it a release

From labour; and the lover, who has chid

Its long delay, feels ev'ry welcome stroke
Upon his heart-strings, trembling with delight--
To fly for refuge from distracting thought
To such amusements as ingenious wo

415

Contrives, hard shifting, and without her tools-
To read engraven on the mouldy walls,

In stagg'ring types, his predecessor's tale,
A sad memorial, and subjoin his own-
To turn purveyor to an overgorg'd
And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest
Is made familiar, watches his approach,
Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend-
VOL. II.

10

420

To wear out time in numb'ring to and fro
The studs that thick emboss his iron door;
Then downward and then upward, then aslant,
And then alternate; with a sickly hope

By dint of change to give his tasteless task
Some relish; till the sum, exactly found

425

430

In all directions, he begins again

O comfortless existence! hemm'd around

With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel And beg for exile, or the pangs of death?

That man should thus encroach on fellow man,

435

Abridge him of his just and native rights,
Eradicate him, tear him from his hold
Upon th' endearments of domestick life
And social, nip his fruitfulness and use,
And doom him for perhaps a heedless word
To barrenness, and solitude, and tears,
Moves indignation, makes the name of king,
(Of king whom such 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 lustre 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 eyesight of Discovery; and begets,
In those that suffer it, a sordid mind,

Bestial, a meager intellect, unfit

To be the tenant of man's noble form.

455

Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art,

With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd
By publick exigence, till annual food

Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief

460

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 sadness, and none more than mine :
Thine unadulterate manners are less soft
And plausible than social life requires,
And thou hast 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
In converse, either starv'd by cold reserve,
Or flush'd by 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 seek no sublunary rest beside.

465

470

475

But once enslav'd, farewell! 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

480

Of British natures, wanting its excuse

That it belongs to freemen, would disgust

And shock me. I should then with double pain
Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;
And, if I must bewail the blessing lost,

485

For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,
I would at least bewail it under skies

Milder, among a people less austere ;

In scenes, which having never known me free,

Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.

490

Do I forebode impossible events,

And tremble at vain dreams? Heav'n grant I may!

But th' age of virtuous politicks is past,

And we are deep in that of cold pretence.

Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere,

495

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, (themselves the slaves of lust,)
Incurs derision for his easy faith

500