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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 studs that thick embofs his iron door,

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Then downward and then upward, then aslant
And then alternate, with a fickly hope
By dint of change to give his tasteless talk
Some relish, till the sum exactly found
In all directions, he begins again
Oh comfortless existence! hemm'd around

With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel
And beg for exile, or the pangs of death?
That man should thus encroach on fellow man,
Abridge him of his just 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 heedless word
To barrenness, and folitude, and tears,

Moves indignation; makes the name of king
(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,
Except what wisdom lays on evil men,
Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes
Their progress in the road of science ; 'blinds
The eyesight of discov'ry, and begets,
In those that suffer it, a fordid mind
Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit
To be the tenant of man's noble form,
Thee therefore still, blame-worthy as thou art,
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd
By public exigence till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the ftate,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief

Among

Among the nations, seeing thou art free!
My native nook of earth! thy clime is rude,
Replete with vapours, and disposes much
All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine ;
Thine unadult'rate manners are less soft

And plausible than social life requires,
And thou hast need of discipline and art
To give thee what politer France receives
From Nature's bounty-that humane address
And sweetness, without which no pleasure is
In converse, either starv'd by cold reserve,
Or fluih'd with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl;
Yet being free, I love thee : for the sake
Of that one feature can be well content,
Disgrac'd as thou hast been, poor as thou art,
To seek no sublunary rest beside.
But once enslav’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

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Of

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 rigor of thy fickle clime ;
And if I must bewail the blessing loft,
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 knowme free,
Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.
Do I forcbode impossible events,
And tremble at vain dreams? Heav'n grant I may !
But th'

age

of virtuous politics is paft,
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 fost credulity the stamp
Design’d by loud deciaimers on the part
Of liberty, themselves the slaves of luft,
Incurs derision 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 sober and good men are fad For England's glory, seeing 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, whose temper'd blades Dispers’d the shackles of usurp'd controul, And hew'd them link from link: then Albion's fons 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

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