And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough:
For when was publick 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 her 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.

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510

Such were they not of old, whose temper'd blades 515

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 domestick sphere,

520

Shone brighter still, once call'd to publiek view.

'Tis therefore many, whose sequester'd lot Forbids their interference, looking on

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 fabrick stood;

535

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 540
Of Earth and Hell confed'rate take away :

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

545

550

555

560

565

570

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,

575

Is liberty; a flight into his arms,

Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way,
A clear escape from tyrannising lust,
And full immunity from penal wo.

Chains are the portion of revolted man,
Stripes, and a dungeon; and his body serves
The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul,
Opprobrious residence, he finds them all.
Propense his heart to idols, he is held
In silly dotage on created things,
Careless of their Creator. And that low
And sordid gravitation of his pow'rs

580

585

To a vile clod, so draws him, with such force

Resistless from the centre he should seek,

590

That he at last forgets it. All his hopes

Tend downward; his ambition is to sink,
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 repose
He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul
In Heav'n-renouncing exile, he endures—
What does he not, from lusts oppos'd in vain,
And self-reproaching conscience? He foresees
The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace,

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600

Fortune, and dignity; the loss of all

That can ennoble man and make frail life,

Short as it is, supportable. Still worse,

Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins

Infect his happiest moments, he forbodes

606

Ages of hopeless mis'ry. Future death,

And death still future. Not a hasty stroke,

Like that which sends him to the dusty grave:

But unrepealable, enduring, death.

610

Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears:

What none can prove a forgery, may be true;

What none but bad men wish exploded, must.

That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud

Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst
Of laughter his compunctions are sincere ;
And he abhors the jest by which he shines.
Remorse begets reform. His master-lust
Falls first before his resolute rebuke,
And seems dethron'd and vanquish'd.
But spurious and short liv'd: the puny child
Of self-congratulating Pride, begot

615

Peace ensues,

On fancied Innocence. Again he falls,
And fights again; but finds, his best essay
A presage ominous, portending still
Its own dishonour by a worse relapse.
Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil'd
So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt,

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625.

Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now
Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause
Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd;
With shallow shifts and old devices, worn
And tatter'd in the service of debauch,
Cov'ring his shame from his offended sight.

630

"Hath God indeed giv'n appetites to man,

635

And stor❜d the earth so plenteously with means

To gratify the hunger of his wish;

And doth he reprobate, and will he damn

The use of his own bounty? making first
So frail a kind, and then enacting laws

640

So strict, that less than perfect must despair?
Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth,
Dishonours God, and makes a slave of man.
Do they themselves, who undertake for hire
The teacher's office, and dispense at large
Their weekly dole of edifying strains,
Attend to their own musick? have they faith
In what, with such solemnity of tone

And gesture, they propound to our belief?

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651

Nay-Conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice
Is but an instrument, on which the priest
May play what tune he pleases. In the deed,

The unequivocal, authentick deed,

We find sound argument, we read the heart."

Such reas'nings (if that name must needs belong

T'excuses in which reason has no part)

Serve to compose a spirit well inclin'd
To live on terms of amity with vice,

And sin without disturbance. Often urg'd,
(As often as, libidinous discourse

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660

He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves,

Or nothing much, his constancy in ill;

Vain tamp'ring has but foster'd his disease;

'Tis desp'rate, and he sleeps the sleep of death.

Haste, now, philosopher, and set him free.

670

Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear

Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth

How lovely, and the moral sense how sure,

Consulted and obey'd, to guide his steps

Directly to the first and only fair.

675

Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the pow'rs
Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise;

Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand,

And with poetick trappings grace thy prose,

Till it out-mantle all the pride of verse.

680

Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high sounding brass,
Smitten in vain! such musick cannot charm

The eclipse, that intercepts truth's heav'nly beam
And chills and darkens a wide wand'ring soul.
The still small voice is wanted. He must speak, 685
Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect;
Who calls for things that are not, and they come.

Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change

That turns to ridicule the turgid speech

And stately tone of moralists, who boast

690