In those that fuffer it, a fordid mind
Beftial, a meagre intellect, unfit

To be the tenant of man's noble form.

Thee, therefore ftill, blame-worthy as thou art,
With all thy lofs of empire, and though squeez'd
By public exigence, 'till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee, I account ftill happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou are free!
My native nook of earth! thy clime is rude,
Replete with vapours, and difpofes 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 difcipline and art,
To give thee what politer France receives
From Nature's bounty-that humane addrefs
And fweetnefs, without which no pleasure is
In converfe, either ftarv'd by cold reserve,
Or flufh'd with fierce difpute, a fenfelefs 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 reft befide.

But once enflav'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

Of British natures, wanting its excufe,

That it belongs to freemen, would disgust

And

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 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 paft,

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 ftamp,

Defign'd by loud declaimers on the part
Of liberty, themselves the flaves of luft,
Incurs derifion for his cafy 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 ftrenuous in his country's caufe,
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

So loose to private duty, that no brain, Healthful, and undisturb'd by factious fumes, Can dream them trufty to the gen'ral 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 fons, Were fons indeed. They felt a filial heart Beat high within them, at a mother's wrongs, And shining 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 perforce fome dire event; And seeing the old castle of the state, 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 heaven 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 food, "And in the duft, fifted and fearch'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 end hell confed'rate take away.

A liberty, which perfecution, fraud,

Oppreffion, prisons, have no power to bind,
Which, whofo tastes, can be enslav'd no more.
'Tis liberty of heart, deriv'd 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 fanction'd fure,
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath,
And promife of a God. His other gifts
All bear the royal stamp 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
Unoccupy'd, has fill'd the void fo well,

And made so sparkling, what was dark before.
But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true,
Smit with the beauty of fo 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 ftill 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 focl,
Whose lying heart disputes againft a God,
That office ferv'd, they must be fwept away.
Not fo 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

No forfeiture, and of its fruits, he fends
Large prelibation oft to faints below.

Of thefe the firft 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 efcape from tyrannizing luft,
And full immunity from penal woe.

Chains are the portion of revólted 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 fhould feek,
That he at last forgets it. All his hopes
Tend downward, his ambition is to fink,
To reach a depth profounder ftill, and ftill
Profounder, in the fathomlefs abyfs
Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death.
But ere he gain the comfortless repofe
He feeks, an 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 foresees
The fatal iffue to his health, fame, peace,
Fortune, and dignity; the loss of all