But flaves, that once conceive the glowing thought
Of freedom, in that hope itself poffefs
All that the conteft calls for; fpirit, ftrength, The fcorn of danger, and united hearts; The fureft prefage of the good they feek*.
Then fhame to manhood, and opprobrious more To France than all her loffes and defeats, Old or of later date, by fea or land,
Her house of bondage, worse than that of old Which God aveng'd on Pharoah-the Bastille! Ye horrid tow'rs, th' abode of broken hearts; Ye dungeons and ye cages of defpair, That monarchs have fupplied from age to age With mufic fuch as fuits their fov'reign ears- The fighs and groans of miferable men!
There's not an English heart that would not leap To hear that ye were fall'n at laft; to know That ev'n our enemies, fo oft employ'd
In forging chains for us, themselves were free.
*The author hopes that he fhall not be cenfured for un neceffary warmth upon fo interesting a fubject. He is aware that it is become almost fashionable to ftigmatize fuch fentiments as no better than empty declamation; but it is an ill fymptom, and peculiar to modern times.
For he who values liberty confines
His zeal for her predominance within No narrow bounds; her cause
engages him Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. There dwell the most forlorn of human kind;
Immur'd though unaccus'd, condemn'd untried, Cruelly fpar'd, and hopeless of escape! There, like the vifionary emblem seen By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, And, filletted about with hoops of brass, Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone. To count the hour-bell and expect no change; And ever, as the fullen found is heard, Still to reflect, that, though a joyless note To him whofe moments all have one dull pace, Ten thousand rovers in the world at large Account it mufic; that it fummons fome To theatre, or jocund feast or ball: 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 diftracting thought To fuch amusements as ingenious woe Contrives, hard-fhifting, and without her tools- To read engraven on the mouldy walls,
In ftagg'ring types, his predeceffor's tale, A fad 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 ferves him for a friend— To wear out time in numb'ring to and fro The ftuds that thick emboss his iron door; Then downward and then upward, then aslant And then alternate; with a fickly hope By dint of change to give his tasteless task Some relifh; till the fum, exactly found In all directions, he begins again-
Oh comfortless exiftence! hemm'd around
With woes, which who that fuffers would not kneel
And beg for exile, or the pangs of death?
That man fhould thus encroach on fellow man,
Abridge him of his juft and native rights, Eradicate him, tear him from his hold Upon th' endearments of domestic life And focial, nip his fruitfulness and use, And doom him for perhaps an heedless word To barrenness, and folitude, 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, ftrong only to destroy.
'Tis liberty alone that gives the flow'r Of fleeting life its luftre and perfume;
And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes Their progrefs 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 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, feeing thou art free: My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude, Replete with vapours, and disposes much
All hearts to fadness, and none more than mine: Thine unadult'rate manners are lefs foft And plausible than focial life requires, And thou haft need of disciple and art To give thee what politer France receives From Nature's bounty-that humane address And fweetnefs, without which no pleasure is In converse, either ftarv'd by cold referve,
Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a fenfeless 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 excuse That it belongs to freemen, would disgust 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 leaft bewail it under skies Milder, among a people lefs auftere;
In fcenes which, having never known me free, Would not reproach me with the lofs I felt. Do I forbode 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.
Deep in his foft credulity the stamp
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