Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out. But censure profits little: vain th' attempt
To advertise in verse a public pest,
And the first larum of the cock's shrill throat May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear To horrid sounds of hostile feet within.
His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use.
That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds Ev'n daylight has its dangers; and the walk
Th' Excise is fatten'd with the rich result Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks, For ever dribbling out their base contents, Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. Drink, and be mad, then; 'tis your country bids! Gloriously drunk, obey th' important call! Her cause demands th' assistance of your throats;- Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.
Would I had fall'n upon those happier days, That poets celebrate; those golden times, And those Arcadian scenes, that Maro sings, And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose. Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had hearts, That felt their virtues: Innocence, it seems, From courts dismiss'd, found shelter in the groves; The footsteps of Simplicity, impress'd Upon the yielding herbage, (so they sing,) Then were not all effac'd: then speech profane, And manners profligate, were rarely found, Observ'd as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd. Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreams Sat for the picture: and the poet's hand, Imparting substance to an empty shade, Impos'd a gay delirium for a truth. Grant it: I still must envy them an age, That favor'd such a dream; in days like these Impossible, when Virtue is so scarce, That to suppose a scene where she presides, Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief. No: we are polish'd now. The rural lass, Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, Her artless manners, and her neat attire, So dignified, that she was hardly less Than the fair shepherdess of old romance, Is seen no more. The character is lost! Her head, adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft, And ribands streaming gay, superbly rais'd, And magnified beyond all human size, Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand For more than half the tresses it sustains; Her elbows ruffled, and her tott'ring form
Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious E Of other tenants than melodious birds, Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. Lamented change! to which full many a came Invet'rate, hopeless of a cure, conspires, The course of human things from good to ill From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. Increase of pow'r begets increase of wealth; Wealth, luxury; and luxury, excess; Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague, That seizes first the opulent, descends To the next rank contagious, and in time Taints downward all the graduated scale Of order, from the chariot to the plow. The rich, and they that have an arm to check The license of the lowest in degree, Desert their office; and themselves, intent On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus To all the violence of lawless hands Resign the scenes their presence might protect Authority herself not seldom sleeps, Though resident, and witness of the wrong. The plump convivial parson often bears The magisterial sword in vain, and lays His rev'rence and his worship both to rest On the same cushion of habitual sloth. Perhaps timidity restrains his arm; When he should strike he trembles, and sets free. Himself enslav'd by terror of the band. Th' audacious convict, whom he dares not bind. Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, He too may have his vice, and sometimes prove Less dainty than becomes his grave outside In lucrative concerns. Examine well
His milk-white hand; the palm is hardly clean- But here and there an ugly smutch appears. Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it: be has touch d Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, Wild-fowl or ven'son; and his errand speeds.
But faster far, and more than all the rest. A noble cause, which none, who bears a spark Of public virtue, ever wish'd remov'd,
Ill-propp'd upon French heels; she might be deem'd Works the deplor'd and mischievous effect.
(But that the basket dangling on her arm
Interprets her more truly) of a rank
Too proud for dairy work, or sale of eggs. Expect her soon with footboy at her heels, No longer blushing for her awkward load, Her train and her umbrella all her care!
"Tis universal soldiership has stabb'd The heart of merit in the meaner class. Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage Of those that bear them, in whatever cause, Seem most at variance with all moral good, And incompatible with serious thought.
The town has ting'd the country; and the stain The clown, the child of Nature, without guile.
Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe, The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs Down into scenes still rural; but, alas! Scenes rarely grac'd with rural manners now! Time was when in the pastoral retreat Th' unguarded door was safe; men did not watch T' invade another's right, or guard their own. Then sleep was undisturb'd by fear, unscar'd By drunken howling; and the chilling tale Of midnight murder was a wonder heard With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes. But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, And slumbers unalarm'd! Now, ere you sleep, See that your polish'd arms be prim'd with care, And drop the night-bolt; -ruffians are abroad;
Blest with an infant's ignorance of all But his own simple pleasures; now and then A wrestling-match, a foot-race, or a fair; Is balloted, and trembles at the news: Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swears A Bible-oath to be whate'er they please, To do he knows not what. The task perform'd, That instant he becomes the sergeant's care, His pupil, and his torment, and his jest. His awkward gait, his introverted toes, Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees. Unapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn stuff, He yet by slow degrees puts off himself, Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well:
He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk; He steps right onward, martial in his air, His form, and movement; is as smart above As meal and larded locks can make him; wears His hat, or his plum'd helmet, with a grace; And, his three years of heroship expir'd, Returns indignant to the slighted plow. He hates the field, in which no fife or drum Attends him; drives his cattle to a march; And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. "T were well if his exterior change were all- But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost His ignorance and harmless manners too. To swear, to game, to drink; to show at home By lewdness, idleness, and Sabbath-breach, The great proficiency he made abroad;
T' astonish and to grieve his gazing friends; To break some maiden's and his mother's heart; To be a pest where he was useful once; Are his sole aim, and all his glory, now.
Man in society is like a flow'r Blown in its native bed: 'tis there alone His faculties, expanded in full bloom, Shine out; there only reach their proper use. But man, associated and leagu'd with man By regal warrant, or self-join'd by bond For int'rest-sake, or swarming into clans Beneath one head for purposes of war, Like flow'rs selected from the rest, and bound And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, Fades rapidly, and, by compression marr'd, Contracts defilement not to be endur'd. Hence charter'd boroughs are such public plagues; And burghers, men immaculate perhaps In all their private functions, once combin'd, Become a lothesome body, only fit For dissolution, hurtful to the main. Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin Against the charities of domestic life, Incorporated seem at once to lose
Their nature; and, disclaiming all regard For mercy and the common rights of man, Build factories with blood, conducting trade At the sword's point, and dying the white robe Of innocent commercial Justice red.
Hence too the field of glory, as the world Misdeerns it, dazzled by its bright array, With all its majesty of thund'ring pomp, Enchanting music, and immortal wreaths, Is but a school, where thoughtlessness is taught On principle, where foppery atones For folly, gallantry for ev'ry vice.
But slighted as it is, and by the great Abandon'd, and, which still I more regret, Infected with the manners and the modes It knew not once, the country wins me still. I never fram'd a wish, or form'd a plan
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue To speak its excellence. I danc'd for joy. I marvell'd much that at so ripe an age As twice seven years, his beauties had then first Engag'd my wonder; and admiring still, And still admiring, with regret suppos'd The joy half lost, because not sooner found. There, too, enamour'd of the life I lov'd, Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit Determin'd, and possessing it at last With transports, such as favor'd lovers feel, I studied, priz'd, and wish'd that I had known, Ingenious Cowley! and, though now reclaim'd By modern lights from an erroneous taste, I cannot but lament thy splendid wit Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. I still revere thee, courtly though retir'd; Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silent bow'rs Not unemploy'd; and finding rich amends For a lost world in solitude and verse.
"Tis born with all the love of Nature's works Is an ingredient in the compound man, Infus'd at the creation of the kind.
And, though th' Almighty Maker has throughout Discriminated each from each, by strokes And touches of his hand, with so much art Diversified, that two were never found Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all, That all discern a beauty in his works, And all can taste them minds that have been form'd And tutor'd, with a relish more exact, But none without some relish, none unmov'd. It is a flame, that dies not even there,
Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds, Nor habits of luxurious city life, Whatever else they smother of true worth In human bosoms, quench it or abate. The villas, with which London stands begirt, Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air,
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer The citizen, and brace his languid frame! Ev'n in the stifling bosom of the town,
A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothe the rich possessor; much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates. These serve him with a hint, That Nature lives; that sight-refreshing green Is still the liv'ry she delights to wear, Though sickly samples of th' exub'rant whole. What are the casements lin'd with creeping herbs, The prouder sashes fronted with a range Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, The Frenchman's darling? Are they not all proofs That man, immur'd in cities, still retains His inborn inextinguishable thirst
That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss, But there I laid the scene. There early stray'd My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice
Of rural scenes, compensating his loss
Had found me, or the hope of being free. My very dreams were rural; rural too
By supplemental shifts, the best he may? The most unfurnish'd with the means of life,
The first-born efforts of my youthful Muse, Sportive and jingling her poetic bells,
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs.
Are they, that never pass their brick-wall bounds, To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air, Yet feel the burning instinct: over-head
No bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'd Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick,
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats
And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands
Fatigu'd me, never weary of the pipe
A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there;
Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang,
The rustic throng beneath his fav'rite beech.
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets The country, with what ardor he contrives A peep at Nature, when he can no more.
Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease, And contemplation, heart-consoling joys, And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abode Of multitudes unknown; hail, rural life! Address himself who will to the pursuit Of honors, or emolument, or fame; I shall not add myself to such a chase, Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. Some must be great. Great offices will have Great talents. And God gives to ev'ry man The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, That lifts him into life, and lets him fall Just in the niche he was ordain'd to fill. To the deliv'rer of an injur'd land
He gives a tongue t' enlarge upon, a heart To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs; To monarchs dignity; to judges sense; To artists ingenuity and skill;
To me an unambitious mind, content
In the low vale of life, that early felt A wish for ease and leisure, and ere-long Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd.
Prepost'rous sight! the legs without the man. The verdure of the plain lies buried deep Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents, And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest, Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, And, fledg'd with icy feathers, nod superb. The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder; not like hung'ring man, Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek, And patient of the slow-pac'd swain's delay. He from the stack carves out th' accustom'd loud Deep plunging, and again deep plunging of, His broad keen knife into the solid mass: Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands. With such undeviating and even force He severs it away: no heedless care, Lest storms should overset the leaning pile Deciduous, or its own unbalanc'd weight. Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern'd The cheerful haunts of man; to wield the an And drive the wedge, in yonder forest drear, From morn to eve his solitary task. Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed en And tail cropp'd short, half lurcher and half eur. His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow; and now, with many an Wide-scamp'ring, snatches up the drifted snow With iv'ry teeth, or plows it with his snout; Then shakes his powder'd coat, and barks for joy Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for asgh But now and then with pressure of his thumb T'adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube.
A frosty morning. The foddering of cattle. The woodman and his dog. The poultry. Whimsica! effects of frost at a waterfall. The Empress of Russia's palace of ice. Amusements of monarchs. That fumes beneath his nose; the trailing cloud War, one of them. Wars, whence; and whence Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. monarchy. The evils of it. English and French Now from the roost, or from the neighb'ring pals loyalty contrasted. The Bastile, and a prisoner Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam there. Liberty the chief recommendation of this Of smiling day, they gossip'd side by side, country. Modern patriotism questionable, and Come trooping at the housewife's well-known c why. The perishable nature of the best human The feather'd tribes domestic. Half on wing, institutions. Spiritual liberty not perishable. The And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood. slavish state of man by nature. Deliver him, Conscious and fearful of too deep a plunge. Deist, if you can. Grace must do it. The respective merits of patriots and martyrs stated. Their different treatment. Happy freedom of the man whom grace makes free. His relish of the works of God. Address to the Creator.
"Tis morning; and the Sun, with ruddy orb Ascending, fires th' horizon; while the clouds, That crowd away before the driving wind, More ardent as the disk emerges more, Resemble most some city in a blaze, Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, And, tinging all with his own rosy hue, From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. Mine, spindling into longitude immense, In spite of gravity, and sage remark That I myself am but a fleeting shade, Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance
The sparrows peep, and quit the shelt'ring eaves To seize the fair occasion; well they eye The scatter'd grain, and, thievishly resolv'd T' escape th' impending famine, often scar'd As oft return, a pert voracious kind. Clean riddance quickly made, one only care Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, Or shed impervious to the blast. Resign'd To sad necessity, the cock foregoes His wonted strut; and, wading at their head With well-consider'd steps, seems to resent His alter'd gait and stateliness retrench'd. How find the myriads, that in summer cheer The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs Due sustenance, or where subsist they now! Earth yields them nought; th' imprison'd worm is saf Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs Lie cover'd close; and berry-bearing thorns, That feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose, Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. The long-protracted rigor of the year,
Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, Thins all their num'rous flocks. In chinks and haies
view the muscular proportion'd limb
As they design'd to mock me, at my side
Take step for step; and, as I near approach
The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall,
Ten thousand seek an unmolested end,
As instinct prompts; self-buried ere they die. The very rooks and daws forsake the fields.
Where neither grub, nor root, nor earth-nut, now
Repays their labor more; and perch'd aloft By the wayside, or stalking in the path, Lean pensioners upon the trav'ller's track,
Blush'd on the panels. Mirror needed none Where all was vitreous; but in order due Convivial table and commodious seat
(What seem'd at least commodious seat) were there
Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them, Sofa, and couch, and high-built throne august.
Of voided pulse or half-digested grain.
The streams are lost amid the splendid blank, O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood, Indurated and fix'd, the snowy weight Lies undissolv'd; while silently beneath, And unperceiv'd, the current steals away. Not so where, scornful of a check, it leaps The mill-dam, dashes on the restless wheel, And wantons in the pebbly gulf below: No frost can bind it there; its utmost force Can but arrest the light and smoky mist, That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide. And see where it has hung th' embroider'd banks With forms so various, that no pow'rs of art, The pencil or the pen, may trace the scene!
The same lubricity was found in all, And all was moist to the warm touch; a scene Of evanescent glory, once a stream, And soon to slide into a stream again. Alas! 'twas but a mortifying stroke Of undesign'd severity, that glanc'd (Made by a monarch) on her own estate, Of human grandeur and the courts of kings. 'Twas transient in its nature, as in show "Twas durable; as worthless, as it seem'd Intrinsically precious; to the foot Treach'rous and false; it smil'd, and it was cold.
Great princes have great playthings. Some have
Here glitt'ring turrets rise, upbearing high
(Fantastic mis-arrangement!) on the roof
At hewing mountains into men, and some At building human wonders mountain-high. Some have amus'd the dull, sad years of life,
Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees (Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad,)
And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops,
That trickle down the branches, fast congeal'd,
Shoot into pillars of pellucid length,
And prop the pile they but adorn'd before.
Here grotto within grotto safe defies
The sunbeam; there, emboss'd and fretted wild, The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain The likeness of some object seen before. Thus Nature works as if to mock at Art, And in defiance of her rival pow'rs; By these fortuitous and random strokes Performing such inimitable feats,
As she with all her rules can never reach. Less worthy of applause, though more admir'd, Because a novelty, the work of man, Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,
Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, The wonder of the North. No forest fell,
When thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its stores T' enrich thy walls: but thou didst hew the floods, And make thy marble of the glassy wave. In such a palace Aristœus found Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale Of his lost bees to her maternal ear:
In such a palace Poetry might place The armory of Winter; where his troops, The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet, Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, And snow, that often blinds the trav'ller's course, And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. Silently as a dream the fabric rose;
With schemes of monumental fame; and sought By pyramids and mausolean pomp, Short-liv'd themselves, t' immortalize their bones. Some seek diversion in the tented field, And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at. Nations would do well Textort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief; and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the World.
When Babel was confounded, and the great Confed'racy of projectors wild and vain Was split into diversity of tongues, Then, as a shepherd separates his flock, These to the upland, to the valley those, God drave asunder, and assign'd their lot To all the nations. Ample was the boon He gave them, in its distribution fair And equal; and he bade them dwell in peace.
Peace was awhile their care they plow'd and sow'd,
And reap'd their plenty without grudge or strife. But violence can never longer sleep
Than human passions please. In ev'ry heart Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war; Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. Cain had already shed a brother's blood: The deluge wash'd it out; but left unquench'd The seeds of murder in the breast of man. Soon by a righteous judgment in the line Of his descending progeny was found The first artificer of death; the shrewd Contriver, who first sweated at the forge, And forc'd the blunt and yet unbloodied steel To a keen edge, and made it bright for war. Him, Tubal nam'd, the Vulcan of old times, The sword and falchion their inventor claims;
No sound of hammer nor of saw was there:
Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts Were soon conjoin'd, nor other cement ask'd Than water interfus'd to make them one. Lamps gracefully dispos'd, and of all hues, Illumin'd ev'ry side: a wat'ry light
Gleam'd through the clear transparency, that seem'd And the first smith was the first murd'rer's son
Another moon new ris'n, or meteor fall'n
From Heaven to Earth, of lambent flame serene.
So stood the brittle prodigy; though smooth And slipp'ry the materials, yet frost-bound Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within, That royal residence might well befit, For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths Of flow'rs, that fear'd no enemy but warmth,
His art surviv'd the waters; and ere-long, When man was multiplied and spread abroad In tribes and clans, and had begun to call These meadows and that range of hills his own, The tasted sweets of property begat Desire of more; and industry in some, T' improve and cultivate their just demesne, Made others covet what they saw so fair.
Thus war began on Earth: these fought for spoil, Familiar, serve t' emancipate the rest! And those in self-defence. Savage at first The onset, and irregular. At length One eminent above the rest for strength, For stratagem, or courage, or for all, Was chosen leader; him they serv'd in war, And him in peace, for sake of warlike deeds Rev'renc'd no less. Who could with him compare? Or who so worthy to control themselves, As he, whose prowess had subdu'd their foes? Thus war, affording field for their display Of virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace, Which have their exigencies too, and call For skill in government, at length made king. King was a name too proud for man to wear With modesty and meekness; and the crown, So dazzling in their eyes, who set it on, Was sure t' intoxicate the brows it bound. It is the abject property of most, That, being parcel of the common mass, And destitute of means to raise themselves, They sink, and settle lower than they need. They know not what it is to feel within A comprehensive faculty, that grasps Great purposes with ease, that turns and wields, Almost without an effort, plans too vast For their conception, which they cannot move. Conscious of impotence, they soon grow drunk With gazing, when they see an able man Step forth to notice; and, besotted thus, Build him a pedestal, and say, "Stand there, And be our admiration and our praise." They roll themselves before him in the dust, Then most deserving in their own account, When most extravagant in his applause, As if, exalting him, they rais'd themselves. Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their sound And sober judgment, that he is but man, They demi-deify and fume him so, That in due season he forgets it too. Inflated and astrut with self-conceit, He gulps the windy diet; and ere-long, Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinks 'The world was made in vain, if not for him. Thenceforth they are his cattle; drudges, born To bear his burdens, drawing in his gears, And sweating in his service, his caprice Becomes the soul, that animates them all. He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives, Spent in the purchase of renown for him, An easy reckoning; and they think the same. Thus kings were first invented, thus kings Were burnish'd into heroes, and became
Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone To rev'rence what is ancient, and can plead A course of long observance for its use, That even servitude, the worst of ills, Because deliver'd down from sire to son, Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing. But is it fit, or can it bear the shock Of rational discussion, that a man, Compounded and made up like other men Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust And folly in as ample measure meet, As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules Should be a despot absolute, and boast Himself the only freeman of his land! Should, when he pleases, and on whom he will Wage war, with any or with no pretence Of provocation giv'n, or wrong sustain'd, And force the beggarly last doit, by means That his own humor dictates, from the clutch Of Poverty, that thus he may procure His thousands, weary of penurious life, A splendid opportunity to die? Say, ye, who (with less prudence than of old Jotham ascrib'd to his assembled trees In politic convention) put your trust I' th' shadow of a bramble, and, reclin'd In fancied peace beneath his dang'rous branch, Rejoice in him, and celebrate his sway, Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence sp Your self-denying zeal, that holds it good To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang His thorns with streamers of continual praise! We, too, are friends to loyalty. We love The king who loves the law, respects his bounda And reigns content within them: him we serve Freely and with delight, who leaves us free; But recollecting still, that he is man. We trust him not too far. King though he be, And king in England too, he may be weak, And vain enough to be ambitious still; May exercise amiss his proper pow'rs, Or covet more than freemen choose to grant: Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours, T' administer, to guard, t' adorn the state, But not to warp or change it. We are his, To serve him nobly in the common cause, True to the death, but not to be his slaves. Mark now the difference, ye that boast your love
The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp;
Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. We love the man, the paltry pageant you: We the chief patron of the commonwealth. You the regardless author of its woes: We for the sake of liberty a king.
Storks among frogs, that have but croak'd and died. You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake.
Strange, that such folly, as lifts bloated man
To eminence fit only for a god,
Should ever drivel out of human lips,
Ev'n in the cradled weakness of the World: Still stranger much, that when at length mankind Had reach'd the sinewy firmness of their youth, And could discriminate and argue well
On subjects more mysterious, they were yet Babes in the cause of freedom, and should fear And quake before the gods themselves had made; But above measure strange, that neither proof Of sad experience, nor example set By some, whose patriot virtue has prevail'd, Can even now, when they are grown mature In wisdom, and with philosophic deeds
Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free; Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, And licks the foot that treads it in the dust. Were kingship as true treasure as it seems, Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, I would not be a king to be belov'd Causeless, and daub'd with undiscerning praise Where love is mere attachment to the throne, Not to the man who fills it as he ought.
Whose freedom is by suff'rance, and at will Of a superior, he is never free. Who lives, and is not weary of a life Expos'd to manacles, deserves them well. The state that strives for liberty, though foul'd
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