Of provocation giv'n, or wrong sustain'd, 315 That his own humour dictates, from the clutch His thousands, weary of penurious life, A splendid opportunity to die? 320 Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old In politick convention) put your trust In fancied peace beneath his dang'rous branch, 325 Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence springs His thorns with streamers of continual praise? 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; Or covet more than freemen choose to grant ! 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 Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, 355 Causeless, and daub'd with undiscerning praise, 360 Where love is mere attachment to the throne, 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, Is weakness when oppos'd; conscious of wrong, 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, 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- There's not an English heart that would not leap To hear that ye were fall'n at last; to know 390 In forging chains for us, themselves were free. 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, 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 415 Contrives, hard shifting, and without her tools- In stagg'ring types, his predecessor's tale, 10 420 To wear out time in numb'ring to and fro By dint of change to give his tasteless task 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, 'Tis liberty alone, that gives the flow'r 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 Fails for the craving hunger of the state, 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 : 465 470 475 But once enslav'd, farewell! I could endure 480 Of British natures, wanting its excuse That it belongs to freemen, would disgust And shock me. I should then with double pain 485 For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, 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,) 500 |