Defign'd by loud declaimers on the part
Of liberty, themselves the flaves of luft,
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 gen'ral weal.
Such were not they of old, whofe temper'd blades
Difpers'd the shackles 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, fhining each in his domeftic fphere,
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 feeing 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 fail.
All has its date below; the fatal hour
Was register'd in heav'n ere time began.
We turn to dust, 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 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 pow'rs
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, 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 promise 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, the vifible difplay
Of all-creating energy and might,
Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the word
That, finding an interminable space
Unoccupied, 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 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, ftill defigning a more glorious far,
Doom'd it as infufficient for his praise.
Thefe, therefore, are occafional, and pass;
Form'd for the confutation of the fool,
Whose lying heart disputes against a God;
That office ferv'd, they must be swept away.
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.
Of these the first in order, and the pledge
And confident affurance of the rest,
:-a flight into his arms
Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way,
A clear escape from tyrannizing lust,
And full immunity from penal woe.
Chains are the portion of revolted man,
Stripes and a dungeon; and his body ferves
The triple purpose. In that fickly, foul,
Opprobrious refidence, he finds them all.
Propense 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 so draws him, with such force,
Refiftless from the centre he should seek,
That he at last forgets it. All his hopes
Tend downward; his ambition is to fink,
To reach a depth profounder still, and still
Profounder, in the fathomless abyss
Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death.
But, ere he gain the comfortless repofe
He feeks, and 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 lofs of all
That can ennoble man, and make frail life,
Short as it is, fupportable. Still worse,
Far worse than all the plagues with which his fins
Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes
Ages of hopeless mifery. Future death,
And death still future. Not an hafty stroke,
Like that which fends him to the dusty grave;
But unrepealable enduring death!
Scripture is ftill a trumpet to his fears:
What none can prove a forgʼry, may be true;
What none but bad men with exploded, must.
That fcruple checks him. Riot is not loud,
Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midft
Of laughter his compunctions are fincere ;
And he abhors the jeft by which he shines.
Remorfe begets reform. His mafter-luft
Falls firft before his refolute rebuke,
And seems dethron'd and vanquish'd. Peace enfues,
But fpurious and fhort-liv'd; the puny child
Of felf-congratulating pride, begot
On fancied innocence. Again he falls,
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