And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest By dint of change to give his tasteless task 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 social, nip his fruitfulness and use, And doom him for perhaps an heedlefs word To barrennefs, and folitude, and tears, Moves indignation; makes the name of king (Of king whom fuch prerogative can pleafe) 'Tis liberty alone that gives the flow'r Of fleeting life its luftre and perfume, And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Their progrefs in the road of fcience; blinds 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 Fails for the craving hunger of the ftate, Among Among the nations, feeing thou art free! My native nook of earth! thy clime is rude, All hearts to fadnefs, and none more than mine; And plaufible than focial life requires, Difgrac'd as thou haft been, poor as thou art, But once enflav'd, farewel! I could endure Chains no where patiently; and chains at home, Then what were left of roughnefs in the grain Of Of British natures, wanting its excufe That it belongs to freemen, would disgust And fhock 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 fkies Milder, among a people less austere, In fcenes which, having never known me free, And tremble at vain dreams? Heav'n grant I may ! of virtuous politics is paft, But th' age And we are deep in that of cold pretence. Patriots are grown too fhrewd to be fincere, And we too wife to truft them. He that takes 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 : Where private was not? Can he love the whole 'Tis therefore fober and good men are fad For England's glory, feeing it wax pale And fickly, while her champions wear their hearts Can dream them trusty to the gen'ral weal. Such were not they of old, whofe temper'd blades Difpers'd the fhackles 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, Shone |