With music, 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 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 Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. There dwell the most forlorn of humankind, 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, And, filletted 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, 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 music; that it summons some 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 distracting thought To such amusements as ingenious woe 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 subjoins 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-
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 In all directions, he begins again- Oh, 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, Abridge him of his just and native rights, Eradicate him, tear him from his hold Upon th' endearments of domestic 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 a man's noble form. Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd By public exigence, till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state, Thee I account still happy, and the chief 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 unadult'rate 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 with 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,
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 by roughness in the grain 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, 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.
Do I forebode impossible events,
And tremble at vain dreams? Heav'n grant I may ! But the age of virtuous politics is past,
And we are deep in that of cold pretence.
Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere,
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,
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 slights the charities, for whose dear sake That country, if at all, must be belov'd?
'Tis therefore sober and good men are sad For England's glory, seeing it wax pale And sickly, while their champions wear their hearts So loose to private duty, that no brain, Healthful and undisturb'd by factious fumes, Can dream them trusty to the gen❜ral weal. Such were not they of old, whose temper'd blades Dispers'd the shackles of usurp'd control, And hew'd them link from link; then Albion's sons Were sons indeed; they felt a filial heart Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs; And, shining each in his domestic sphere, Shone brighter still, once call'd to public view. 'Tis therefore many, whose sequester'd lot Forbids their interference, looking on, Anticipate perforce some dire event; And, seeing the old castle of the state, That promis'd once more firmness, so assail'd, That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake, Stand motionless expectants of its fall. 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 distant age asks where the fabric stood; And in the dust, sifted and search'd in vain ; The undiscoverable secret sleeps.
But there is yet a liberty, unsung
By poets, and by senators unprais'd,
Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs Of earth and hell confed'rate, take
A liberty, which persecution, fraud,
Oppression, prisons, have no pow'r to bind: Which whoso 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 seal'd with the same token. It is held By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure 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 august; but this transcends them all. His other works, the visible display 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 so 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 suppose th' artificer divine Meant it eternal, had he not himself Pronounc'd it transient, glorious as it is, And, still designing a more glorious far, Doom'd it as insufficient for his praise. These, therefore, are occasional, and pass; Form'd for the confutation of the fool, Whose lying heart disputes against a God; That office serv'd, they must be swept away. Not so the labours of His love: they shine In other heav'ns than these that we behold, And fade not. There is Paradise that fears No forfeiture, and of its fruits he sends Large prelibation oft to saints below. Of these, the first in order, and the pledge And confident assurance of the rest,
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