His thorns with streamers of continual praise? We truft him not too far. King though he be, your Of kings, between your loyalty and our's. love You the regardless author of its woes. We, for the fake of liberty, a king; You chains and bondage, for a tyrant's fake. In reason, is judicious, manly, free; Your's, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, Whose freedom is by fuff'rance, and at will Of a fuperior, he is never free. Who lives, and is not weary of a life Expos'd to manacles, deferves them well. The state that strives for liberty, though foil'd, And forc'd t' abandon what she bravely fought, t Deferves at leaft applause for her attempt, And pity for her lofs. But that's a cause Is weakness when oppos'd; confcious of wrong, 'Tis pufillanimous and prone to flight. But flaves, that once conceive the glowing thought Of freedom, in that hope itself poffefs All that the conteft calls for; fpirit, ftrength, The fcorn of danger, and united hearts; The fureft prefage of the good they seek*. Then fhame to manhood, and opprobrious more To France than all her loffes and defeats, Old or of later date, by fea or land, The author hopes that he fhall not be cenfured for unneceffary warmth upon so interesting a subject. He is aware that it is become almost fashionable to stigma tize fuch sentiments as no better than empty declamation; but it is an ill fymptom, and peculiar to modern times. Her house of bondage, worse than that of old Which God aveng'd on Pharaoh-the Bastille! Ye horrid tow'rs, th' abode of broken hearts; Ye dungeons and ye cages of defpair, That monarchs have fupplied from age to age With mufic fuch as fuits their fov'reign earsThe fighs and groans of miferable men! There's not an English heart that would not leap In forging chains for us, themselves were free, His zeal for her predominance within No narrow bounds; her cause engages him There dwell the most forlorn of human kind; By him of Babylon, life ftands a stump, And, filletted about with hoops of brass, Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone. To count the hour-bell and expect no change; And ever, as the fullen found is heard, Still to reflect, that, though a joyless note Ten thousand rovers in the world at large To theatre, or jocund feast or ball: Its long delay, feels ev'ry welcome stroke |