And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest
Is made familiar, watches his approach,

Comes at his call, and ferves him for a friend

To wear out time in numb'ring to and fro
The ftuds that thick emboss his iron door,
Then downward and then upward, then aflant
And then alternate, with a fickly hope

By dint of change to give his taftelefs task
Some relish, till the fum exactly found
In all directions, he begins again-

Oh comfortless existence! hemm'd around

With woes, which who that fuffers would not kneel

And beg for exile, or the pangs of death?

That man fhould thus encroach on fellow man,

Abridge him of his juft and native rights,

Eradicate him, tear him from his hold

Upon th' endearments of domestic life

And focial, nip his fruitfulness and use,

And doom him for perhaps an heedless word
To barrennefs, and folitude, and tears,

Moves indignation; makes the name of king

(Of king whom fuch prerogative can please) As dreadful as the Manichean god,

Ador'd through fear, ftrong only to destroy.

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flow'r Of fleeting life its luftre and perfume,

And we are weeds without it. All constraint,
Except what wisdom lays on evil men,
Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes

Their progrefs in the road of fcience; blinds
The eyefight of difcov'ry, and begets,

In thofe that fuffer it, a fordid mind

Beftial, a meagre intellect, unfit

To be the tenant of man's noble form.

Thee therefore ftill, blame-worthy as thou art,

With all thy lofs of empire, and though squeez'd
By public exigence till annual food

Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account ftill happy, and the chief

Among

Among the nations, feeing thou art free!

My native nook of earth! thy clime is rude,
Replete with vapours, and difpofes much

All hearts to fadness, and none more than mine
Thine unadult'rate manners are less foft

And plaufible than focial life requires,
And thou haft need of difcipline and art
To give thee what politer France receives
From Nature's bounty-that humane address
And fweetnefs, without which no pleasure is
In converse, either starv'd by cold reserve,
Or flush'd with fierce difpute, a senseless brawl;
Yet being free, I love thee: for the fake
Of that one feature can be well content,

Difgrac'd as thou hast been, poor as thou art,
To feek no fublunary reft befide.

But once enflav'd, farewel! 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

Of British natures, wanting its excufe

That it belongs to freemen, would disgust

And shock me. I should then, with double pain,

Feel all the rigor of thy fickle clime;

And if I muft bewail the bleffing loft,

For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,

I would at least bewail it under skies

Milder, among a people less auftere,

In scenes which, having never known me free,
Would not reproach me with the lofs I felt.

Do I forebode impoffible 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 fhrewd to be fincere,

And we too wife to trust them. He that takes
Deep in his foft credulity the stamp

Defign'd by loud declaimers on the part

Of liberty, themselves the flaves of luft,

Incurs derifion for his eafy 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 flights the charities, for whose dear fake
That country, if at all, must be belov'd?

'Tis therefore fober and good men are fad For England's glory, feeing it wax pale

And fickly, 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.

Such were not they of old, whofe temper'd blades

Dispers'd the shackles of ufurp'd controul,

And hew'd them link from link: then Albion's fons

Were fons indeed; they felt a filial heart

Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs,
And, fhining each in his domestic sphere,

Shone