(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, Their progress in the road of science; blinds In those that suffer it, a sordid mind Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit To be the tenant of man's noble form. Thee therefore still, blame-worthy as thou art, Fails for the craving hunger of the state, My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude, All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine: Thine unadult'rate manners are less soft And plausible than social life requires, Of that one feature can be well content, 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 of 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 th' 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 '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 genʼral weal. Such were they not 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, All has its date below; the fatal hour Was register'd in heav'n ere time began. But there is yet a liberty, unsung |