INDEPENDENCE.
[]HAPPY the Bard (tho' few ſuch Bards we find)
Who, 'bove controulment, dares to ſpeak his mind,
Dares, unabaſh'd, in ev'ry place appear,
And nothing fears, but what he ought to fear.
Him Faſhion cannot tempt, him abject Need
Cannot compel, him Pride cannot miſlead
To be the ſlave of greatneſs, to ſtrike ſail,
When, ſweeping onward with her Peacock's tail,
QUALITY, in full plumage, paſſes by;
He views her with a fix'd, contemptuous eye,
And mocks the Puppet, keeps his own due ſtate,
And is above converſing with the great.
[2]
Periſh thoſe Slaves, thoſe minions of the quill,
Who have conſpir'd to ſeize that ſacred hill
Where the nine Siſters pour a genuine ſtrain,
And ſunk the mountain level with the plain;
Who, with mean, private views, and ſervile art,
No ſpark of Virtue living in their heart,
Have baſely turn'd Apoſtates, have debas'd
Their dignity of office, have diſgrac'd,
Like ELI'S Sons, the altars where they ſtand,
And caus'd their name to ſtink thro' all the land,
Have ſtoop'd to proſtitute their venal pen
For the ſupport of great, but guilty men,
Have made the Bard, of their own vile accord,
Inferior to that thing we call a Lord.
What is a Lord? doth that plain, ſimple word
Contain ſome magic ſpell? as ſoon as heard,
Like an Alarum Bell on Night's dull ear,
Doth It ſtrike louder, and more ſtrong appear
Than other Words? whether we will or no,
Thro' Reaſon's Court doth It unqueſtion'd go
E'en on the mention, and of courſe tranſmit
Notions of ſomething excellent, of Wit
[3] Pleaſing, tho' keen, of Humour free, tho' chaſte,
Of ſterling Genius with ſound Judgment grac'd,
Of Virtue far above temptation's Reach,
And Honour, which not malice can impeach?
Believe it not—'twas NATURE's firſt intent,
Before their rank became their puniſhment,
They ſhould have paſs'd for Men, nor bluſh'd to prize
The bleſſings ſhe beſtow'd—She gave them eyes,
And They could ſee—She gave them ears—they heard—
The Inſtruments of ſtirring, and they ſtirr'd—
Like Us, they were deſign'd to eat, to drink,
To talk, and (ev'ry now and then) to think.
Till They, by Pride corrupted, for the ſake
Of Singularity, diſclaim'd that make,
Till They, diſdaining Nature's vulgar mode,
Flew off, and ſtruck into another road,
More fitting Quality, and to our view
Came forth a Species altogether new,
Something We had not known, and could not know,
Like nothing of God's making here below,
NATURE exclaim'd with wonder—Lords are Things,
Which, never made by Me, were made by Kings.
[4]
A Lord (nor let the honeſt, and the brave,
The true, Old Noble, with the Fool and Knave
Here mix his fame; curs'd be that thought of mine,
Which with a B—and F—ſhould GRAFTON join)
A Lord (nor here let Cenſure raſhly call
My juſt contempt of ſome, abuſe of all,
And, as of late, when SODOM was my theme,
Slander my purpoſe, and my Muſe blaſpheme,
Becauſe ſhe ſtops not, rapid in her ſong,
To make exceptions as She goes along,
Tho' well She hopes to find, another year,
A whole MINORITY exceptions here)
A mere, mere Lord, with nothing but the name,
Wealth all his Worth, and Title all his Fame,
Lives on another man, himſelf a blank,
Thankleſs he lives, or muſt ſome Grandſire thank,
For ſmuggled Honours, and ill-gotten pelf;
A Bard owes all to Nature, and Himſelf.
Gods, how my Soul is burnt up with diſdain,
When I ſee Men, whom PHOEBUS in his Train
Might view with pride, lacquey the heels of thoſe
Whom Genius ranks amongſt her greateſt foes!
[5] And what's the cauſe? why theſe ſame ſons of ſcorn,
No thanks to them, were to a Title born,
And could not help it; by Chance hither ſent,
And only Deities by accident.
Had fortune on our getting chanc'd to ſhine
Their birthright honours had been your's, or mine.
'Twas a mere random ſtroke, and ſhould the Throne
Eye Thee with favour, proud and lordly grown,
Thou, tho' a Bard, might'ſt be their fellow yet,
But FELIX never can be made a Wit.
No, in good faith—that's one of thoſe few things
Which Fate hath plac'd beyond the reach of Kings.
Bards may be Lords, but 'tis not in the cards,
Play how we will, to turn Lords into Bards.
A Bard—A Lord—Why let them hand in hand
Go forth as Friends, and travel thro' the land,
Obſerve which word the People can digeſt
Moſt readily, which goes to market beſt,
Which gets moſt credit, Whether Men will truſt
A Bard becauſe they think he may be juſt,
Or on a Lord will chuſe to riſque their gains,
Tho' Privilege in that point ſtill remains.
[6]
A Bard—A Lord—let REASON take her Scales,
And fairly weigh thoſe Words, ſee which prevails,
Which in the ballance lightly kicks the beam,
And which by ſinking We the Victor deem.
'Tis done, and HERMES, by command of JOVE,
Summons a Synod in the ſacred grove,
Gods throng with Gods to take their chairs on high,
And ſit in ſtate, the Senate of the Sky,
Whilſt, in a kind of parliament below,
Men ſtare at thoſe above, and want to know
What They're tranſacting; REASON takes her ſtand
Juſt in the midſt, a ballance in her hand,
Which o'er and o'er She tries, and finds it true;
From either ſide, conducted full in view,
A Man comes forth, of figure ſtrange and queer;
We now and then ſee ſomething like them here.
The Firſt was meager, flimſy, void of ſtrength,
But Nature kindly had made up in length,
What She in breadth denied; Erect and proud,
A head and ſhoulders taller than the croud,
He deem'd them pygmies all; looſe hung his ſkin
O'er his bare bones; his Face ſo very thin,
[7] So very narrow, and ſo much beat out,
That Phyſiognomiſts have made a doubt,
Proportion loſt, Expreſſion quite forgot,
Whether It could be call'd a face, or not;
At end of it howe'er, unbleſs'd with beard,
Some twenty fathom length of chin appear'd;
With Legs, which we might well conceive that Fate
Meant only to ſupport a ſpider's weight,
Firmly he ſtrove to tread, and with a ſtride
Which ſhew'd at once his weakneſs and his pride,
Shaking himſelf to pieces, ſeem'd to cry,
Obſerve good People, how I ſhake the ſky.
In his right hand a Paper did He hold,
On which, at large, in characters of gold,
Diſtinct, and plain for thoſe who run to ſee,
Saint ARCHIBALD had wrote L, O, R, D.
This, with an air of ſcorn, He from afar
Twirl'd into REASON'S ſcales, and on that Bar,
Which from his ſoul he hated, yet admir'd,
Quick turn'd his back, and as he came retir'd.
The Judge to all around his name declar'd;
Each Goddeſs titter'd, each God laugh'd, JOVE ſtar'd,
[8] And the whole People cried, with one accord,
Good Heaven bleſs us all, is That a Lord!
Such was the Firſt—the Second was a man,
Whom Nature built on quite a diff'rent plan;
A Bear, whom from the moment he was born,
His Dam deſpis'd, and left unlick'd in ſcorn;
A Babel, which, the pow'r of Art outdone,
She could not finiſh when She had begun;
An utter Chaos, out of which no might
But that of God could ſtrike one ſpark of light.
Broad were his ſhoulders, and from blade to blade
A H—might at full length have laid;
Vaſt were his Bones, his Muſcles twiſted ſtrong,
His Face was ſhort, but broader than 'twas long,
His Features, tho' by Nature they were large,
Contentment had contriv'd to overcharge
And bury meaning, ſave that we might ſpy
Senſe low'ring on the penthouſe of his eye;
His Arms were two twin Oaks, his Legs ſo ſtout
That they might bear a Manſion Houſe about,
Nor were They, look but at his body there,
Deſign'd by Fate a much leſs weight to bear.
[9]
O'er a brown Caſſock, which had once been black,
Which hung in tatters on his brawny back,
A ſight moſt ſtrange, and aukward to behold
He threw a covering of Blue and Gold.
Juſt at that time of life, when Man by rule,
The Fop laid down, takes up the graver fool,
He ſtarted up a Fop, and, fond of ſhow,
Look'd like another HERCULES, turn'd Beau.
A Subject, met with only now and then,
Much fitter for the pencil than the pen;
HOGARTH would draw him (Envy muſt allow)
E'en to the life, was HOGARTH living now.
With ſuch accoutrements, with ſuch a form,
Much like a Porpoiſe juſt before a ſtorm,
Onward He roll'd; a laugh prevail'd around,
E'en JOVE was ſeen to ſimper; at the ſound
(Nor was the cauſe unknown, for from his Youth
Himſelf he ſtudied by the glaſs of Truth)
He join'd their mirth, nor ſhall the Gods condemn
If, whilſt They laugh'd at him, he laugh'd at them.
Judge REASON view'd him with an eye of grace,
Look'd thro' his ſoul, and quite forgot his face,
[10] And, from his hand receiv'd, with fair regard
Plac'd in her other ſcale the name of Bard.
Then (for She did as Judges ought to do,
She nothing of the caſe beforehand knew
Nor wiſh'd to know, She never ſtretch'd the laws,
Nor, baſely to anticipate a cauſe,
Compell'd Sollicitors no longer free,
To ſhew thoſe briefs She had no right to ſee)
Then She with equal hand her ſcales held out,
Nor did the Cauſe one moment hang in doubt,
She held her ſcales out fair to public view;
The Lord, as ſparks fly upwards, upwards flew,
More light than air, deceitful in the weight;
The Bard, preponderating, kept his ſtate,
REASON approv'd, and with a voice, whoſe ſound
Shook earth, ſhook heaven, on the cleareſt ground.
Pronouncing for the Bards a full decree,
Cried—Thoſe muſt Honour Them, who honour Me,
They from this preſent day, where'er I reign,
In their own right, Precedence ſhall obtain,
Merit rules here, Be it enough that Birth
Intoxicates, and ſways the fools of earth.
[11]
Nor think that here, in hatred to a Lord,
I've forg'd a tale, or alter'd a record;
Search when You will (I am not now in ſport)
You'll find it regiſter'd in REASON's Court.
Nor think that Envy here hath ſtrung my lyre,
That I depreciate what I moſt admire,
And look on titles with an eye of ſcorn
Becauſe I was not to a title born.
By Him that made me, I am much more proud,
More inly ſatisfied, to have a croud
Point at me as I paſs, and cry,—that's He—
A poor, but honeſt Bard, who dares be free
Amidſt Corruption, than to have a train
Of flick'ring Levee ſlaves, to make me vain
Of things I ought to bluſh for; to run, fly,
And live but in the motion of my eye;
When I am leſs than Man, my faults t'adore,
And make me think that I am ſomething more.
Recall paſt times, bring back the days of old,
When the great Noble bore his honours bold,
And in the face of peril, when He dar'd
Things which his legal Baſtard, if declar'd,
[12] Might well diſcredit; faithful to his truſt,
In the extremeſt points of Juſtice, Juſt,
Well-knowing All, and lov'd by All he knew,
True to his King, and to his Country true,
Honeſt at Court, above the baits of gain,
Plain in his dreſs, and in his manners plain,
Mod'rate in wealth, gen'rous but not profuſe,
Well worthy riches, for he knew their uſe,
Poſſeſſing much, and yet deſerving more,
Deſerving thoſe high honours, which he wore
With eaſe to all, and in return gain'd fame,
Which all men paid, becauſe he did not claim,
When the grim War was plac'd in dread array,
Fierce as the Lion roaring for his prey,
Or Lioneſs of royal whelps foredone,
In Peace, as mild as the departing Sun,
A gen'ral bleſſing whereſoe'er he turn'd,
Patron of learning, nor himſelf unlearn'd,
Ever awake at Pity's tender call,
A Father of the Poor, a Friend to All,
Recall ſuch times, and from the grave bring back
A Worth like this, my heart ſhall bend, or crack,
My ſtubborn pride give way, my tongue proclaim,
And ev'ry Muſe conſpire to ſwell his fame,
[13] Till Envy ſhall to him that praiſe allow,
Which She cannot deny to TEMPLE now.
This Juſtice claims, nor ſhall the Bard forget,
Delighted with the taſk, to pay that debt,
To pay it like a Man, and in his lays,
Sounding ſuch worth, prove his own right to praiſe.
But let not Pride and Prejudice miſdeem,
And think that empty Titles are my Theme,
Titles, with Me, are vain, and nothing worth,
I rev'rence Virtue, but I laugh at Birth.
Give me a Lord, that's honeſt, frank, and brave,
I am his friend, but cannot be his ſlave.
Tho' none indeed but Blockheads would pretend
To make a ſlave, where they may make a friend.
I love his Virtues, and will make them known,
Confeſs his rank, but can't forget my own.
Give me a Lord, who, to a Title born,
Boaſts nothing elſe, I'll pay him ſcorn with ſcorn.
What, ſhall my Pride (and Pride is Virtue here)
Tamely make way, if ſuch a wretch appear?
Shall I uncover'd ſtand, and bend my knee
To ſuch a ſhadow of Nobility,
[14]
A Shred, a Remnant; he might rot unknown
For any real merit of his own,
And never had come forth to public note,
Had He not worn by chance his Father's coat?
To think a M—worth my leaſt regards
Is treaſon to the Majeſty of Bards.
By NATURE form'd (when for her Honour' ſake
She ſomething more than common ſtrove to make,
When, overlooking each minute defect,
And all too eager to be quite correct,
In her full heat and vigour, ſhe impreſt
Her ſtamp moſt ſtrongly on the favour'd breaſt)
The Bard (nor think too lightly that I mean
Thoſe little, piddling Witlings, who o'erween
Of their ſmall parts, the MURPHYS of the ſtage,
The MASONS and the WHITEHEADS of the age,
Who all in raptures their own works rehearſe,
And drawl out meaſur'd proſe, which They call verſe)
The real Bard, whom native Genius fires,
Whom ev'ry Maid of Caſtaly inſpires,
Let him conſider wherefore he was meant,
Let him but anſwer Nature's great intent,
[15] And fairly weigh himſelf with other men,
Would ne'er debaſe the glories of his pen,
Would in full ſtate, like a true Monarch, live,
Nor bate one inch of his Prerogative.
Methinks I ſee old WINGATE frowning here,
(WINGATE may in the ſeaſon be a Peer,
Tho' now, againſt his will, of figures ſick,
He's forc'd to diet on Arithmetic,
E'en whilſt he envies ev'ry Jew he meets,
Who cries old Cloaths to ſell about the ſtreets)
Methinks (his mind with future honours big,
His Tyburn Bob turn'd to a dreſs'd Bag Wig)
I hear him cry—What doth this jargon mean?
Was ever ſuch a damn'd dull Blockhead ſeen?
Majeſty—Bard—Prerogative—Diſdain
Hath got into, and turn'd the fellow's brain;
To Bethlem with him—give him whips and ſtraw—
I'm very ſenſible he's mad in Law.
A ſaucy Groom who trades in Reaſon, thus
To ſet himſelf upon a Par with us;
If this here's ſuffer'd, and if that there fool
May when he pleaſes ſend us all to ſchool,
[16] Why then our only buſineſs is outright
To take our caps, and bid the World good night.
I've kept a Bard myſelf this twenty years,
But nothing of this kind in him appears.
He, like a thorough true-bred Spaniel, licks
The hand which cuffs him, and the foot which kicks,
He fetches, and he carries, blacks my ſhoes,
Nor thinks it a diſcredit to his Muſe,
A Creature of the right Camelion hue,
He wears my colours, yellow or true Blue,
Juſt as I wear them; 'tis all one to him,
Whether I change thro' conſcience, or thro' whim.
Now this is ſomething like, on ſuch a plan
A Bard may find a friend in a great Man;
But this proud Coxcomb—Zounds, I thought that All
Of this queer tribe had been like my Old PAUL.
Injurious Thought! accurſed be the tongue
On which the vile inſinuation hung,
The heart where 'twas engender'd, curs'd be thoſe,
Thoſe Bards, who not themſelves alone expoſe,
But Me, but All, and make the very name
By which They're call'd, a ſtanding mark of ſhame.
[17]
Talk not of Cuſtom—'tis the Coward's plea,
Current with Fools, but paſſes not with me;
An old ſtale trick, which guilt hath often tried
By numbers to o'erpow'r the better ſide.
Why tell me then that from the birth of Rime,
No matter when, down to the preſent time,
As by th' original decree of Fate,
Bards have protection ſought amongſt the Great,
Conſcious of weakneſs, have applied to them
As Vines to Elms, and twining round their ſtem,
Flouriſh'd on high; to gain this wiſh'd ſupport
E'en VIRGIL to MAECENAS paid his court.
As to the Cuſtom 'tis a point agreed,
But 'twas a fooliſh diffidence, not need,
From which it roſe; Had Bards but truly known
That Strength, which is moſt properly their own,
Without a Lord, unpropp'd, They might have ſtood,
And overtopp'd thoſe Giants of the wood.
But why, when preſent times my care engage,
Muſt I go back to the Auguſtan age?
Why, anxious for the living, am I led
Into the manſions of the antient dead?
[18] Can They find Patrons no where but at ROME,
And muſt I ſeek MAECENAS in the tomb?
Name but a WINGATE, twenty Fools of note
Start up, and from report MAECENAS quote;
Under his colours Lords are proud to fight,
Forgetting that MAECENAS was a Knight;
They mention him as if to uſe his name
Was in ſome meaſure to partake his fame,
Tho' VIRGIL, was he living, in the ſtreet
Might rot for them, or periſh in the Fleet.
See how They redden, and the charge diſclaim—
Virgil, and in the Fleet—forbid it Shame.
Hence, Ye vain Boaſters, to the Fleet repair,
And aſk, with bluſhes aſk, if LLOYD is there.
Patrons, in days of yore, were Men of Senſe,
Were Men of Taſte, and had a fair pretence
To rule in Letters—Some of Them were heard
To read off-hand, and never ſpell a word;
Some of them too, to ſuch a monſtrous height
Was Learning riſen, for themſelves could write,
And kept their Secretaries, as the Great
Do many other fooliſh things, for State.
[19]
Our Patrons are of quite a diff'rent ſtrain,
With neither ſenſe nor Taſte, againſt the grain,
They patronize for faſhion ſake—no more—
And keep a Bard, juſt as They keep a Whore.
M—(on ſuch occaſion I am loth
To name the dead) was a rare proof of both.
Some of them would be puzzled e'en to read,
Nor could deſerve their Clergy by their Creed;
Others can write, but ſuch a Pagan hand
A WILLES ſhould always at our elbow ſtand;
Many, if begg'd, A Chancellor, of right,
Would order into keeping at firſt ſight.
Thoſe who ſtand faireſt to the public view
Take to themſelves the praiſe to others due,
They rob the very Spital, and make free
With thoſe alas who've leaſt to ſpare—We ſee,
—hath not had a word to ſay,
Since Winds and Waves bore SINGLESPEECH away.
Patrons in days of yore, like Patrons now,
Expected that the Bard ſhould make his bow
At coming in, and ev'ry now and then
Hint to the world that They were more than men,
[20] But, like the Patrons of the preſent day,
They never bilk'd the Poet of his pay.
VIRGIL lov'd rural eaſe, and, far from harm,
MAECENAS fix'd him in a neat, ſnug farm,
Where he might, free from trouble, paſs his days
In his own way, and pay his rent in praiſe.
HORACE lov'd wine, and, thro' his friend at Court,
Could buy it off the Key in ev'ry port;
HORACE lov'd mirth, MAECENAS lov'd it too,
They met, they laugh'd, as GOY and I may do,
Nor in thoſe moments paid the leaſt regard
To which was Miniſter, and which was Bard.
Not ſo our Patrons—grave as grave can be,
They know themſelves, They keep up dignity;
Bards are a forward race, nor is it fit
That Men of fortune rank with men of Wit;
Wit if familiar made, will find her ſtrength—
'Tis beſt to keep her weak, and at arm's length.
'Tis well enough for Bards, if Patrons give,
From hand to mouth, the ſcanty means to live.
Such is their language, and their practice ſuch,
They promiſe little, and they give not much.
[21] Let the weak Bard, with proſtituted ſtrain,
Praiſe that proud SCOT, whom all good men diſdain;
What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone,
He may obtain a patent for the run
Of his Lord's kitchen, and have ample time,
With offal fed, to court the Cook in rime,
Or (if he ſtrives true Patriots to diſgrace)
May at the ſecond Table get a place,
With ſomewhat greater ſlaves allow'd to dine,
And play at CRAMBO o'er his gill of wine.
And are there Bards, who on Creation's file
Stand rank'd as Men, who breathe in this fair Iſle
The air of Freedom, with ſo little gall,
So low a Spirit, proſtrate thus to fall
Before theſe Idols, and without a groan
Bear wrongs might call forth murmurs from a ſtone?
Better, and much more noble, to abjure
The ſight of men, and in ſome cave, ſecure
From all the outrages of pride, to feaſt
On Nature's ſallads, and be free at leaſt.
Better (tho' that, to ſay the truth, is worſe
Than almoſt any other modern curſe)
[22] Diſcard all Senſe, divorce the thankleſs Muſe,
Critics commence, and write in the Reviews,
Write without tremor, GRIFFITHS cannot read;
No Fool can fail, where LANGHORNE can ſucceed.
But (not to make a brave and honeſt Pride
Try thoſe means firſt, She muſt diſdain when tried)
There are a thouſand ways, a thouſand arts,
By which, and fairly, Men of real parts
May gain a living, gain what Nature craves;
Let Thoſe, who pine for more, live, and be ſlaves.
Our real wants in a ſmall compaſs lye,
But lawleſs Appetite with eager eye,
Kept in a conſtant Fever, more requires,
And we are burnt up with our own deſires.
Hence our dependence, hence our ſlav'ry ſprings;
Bards, if contented, are as great as Kings.
Ourſelves are to Ourſelves the cauſe of ill;
We may be Independent, if we will.
The Man who ſuits his Spirit to his ſtate
Stands on an equal footing with the Great,
MOGULS themſelves are not more rich, and He,
Who rules the Engliſh nation, not more free.
[23] Chains were not forg'd more durable and ſtrong
For Bards than others, but They've worne them along,
And therefore wear them ſtill, They've quite forgot
What Freedom is, and therefore prize her not.
Could They, tho' in their ſleep, could They but know
The bleſſings which from INDEPENDENCE flow,
Could They but have a ſhort and tranſient gleam
Of LIBERTY, tho' 'twas but in a dream,
They would no more in bondage bend their knee,
But, once made Freemen, would be always free.
The Muſe if She one moment freedom gains,
Can never more ſubmit to ſing in chains.
Bred in a cage, far from the ſeather'd throng,
The Bird repays his keeper with his ſong,
But, if ſome playful child ſets wide the door,
Abroad he flies, and thinks of home no more,
With love of Liberty begins to burn,
And rather ſtarves than to his cage return.
Hail INDEPENDENCE—by true Reaſon taught,
How few have known, and priz'd Thee as They ought.
Some give Thee up for riot; Some, like Boys,
Reſign Thee, in their childiſh moods, for toys
[24] Ambition ſome, ſome Avarice miſleads,
And in both caſes INDEPENDENCE bleeds;
Abroad, in queſt of Thee, how many roam
Nor know They had Thee in their reach at home;
Some, tho' about their paths, their beds about,
Have never had the Senſe to find Thee out;
Others, who know of what They are poſſeſs'd,
Like fearful Miſers, lock Thee in a cheſt,
Nor have the reſolution to produce
In theſe bad times, and bring Thee forth for uſe.
Hail, INDEPENDENCE—tho' thy name's ſcarce known,
Tho' Thou, Alas! art out of faſhion grown,
Tho' All deſpiſe Thee, I will not deſpiſe,
Nor live one moment longer than I prize
Thy preſence, and enjoy; by angry Fate
Bow'd down, and almoſt cruſh'd, Thou cam'ſt, tho' late,
Thou cam'ſt upon me, like a ſecond birth,
And made me know what life was truly worth.
Hail, INDEPENDENCE—never may my Cot,
Till I forget Thee, be by Thee forgot;
Thither, O Thither, oftentimes repair;
COTES, whom Thou loveſt too, ſhall meet Thee there;
All thoughts, but what ariſe from joy, give o'er;
PEACE dwells within, and LAW ſhall guard the door.
[25]
O'erweening Bard! LAW guard thy door, what LAW?
The LAW of ENGLAND—To controul, and awe
Thoſe ſaucy hopes, to ſtrike that Spirit dumb,
Behold, in State, ADMINISTRATION come.
Why let Her come, in all her terrors too;
I dare to ſuffer all She dares to do.
I know her malice well, and know her pride,
I know her ſtrength, but will not change my ſide.
This melting maſs of fleſh She may controul
With iron ribs, She cannot chain my Soul.
No—to the laſt reſolv'd her worſt to bear,
I'm ſtill at large, and Independent there.
Where is this Miniſter? where is the band
Of ready ſlaves, who at his elbow ſtand
To hear, and to perform his wicked will?
Why, for the firſt time, are they ſlow to ill?
When ſome grand act 'gainſt Law is to be done,
Doth—ſleep; doth Bloodhound—run
To L—, and worry thoſe ſmall deer
When He might do more precious miſchief here?
Doth—turn tail? doth He refuſe to draw
Illegal warrants, and to call them Law?
[26] Doth—, at G—d kick'd, from G—d run,
With that cold lump of unbak'd dough, his Son,
And, his more honeſt rival, KETCH to cheat
Purchaſe a burial place where three ways meet?
Believe it not;—is—ſtill,
And never ſleeps, when he ſhould wake to ill;
—doth leſſer miſchieſs by the bye,
The great Ones till the Term in Petto lie;
—lives, and, to the ſtricteſt juſtice true,
Scorns to defraud the Hangman of his due.
O my poor COUNTRY—weak and overpow'r'd
By thine own Sons—eat to the bone—devour'd
By Vipers, which, in thine own entrails bred,
Prey on thy life, and with thy blood are fed,
With unavailing grief thy wrongs I ſee,
And, for myſelf not feeling, feel for Thee.
I grieve, but can't deſpair—for, Lo, at hand
FREEDOM preſents a choice, but faithful band
Of Loyal PATRIOTS, Men who greatly dare
In ſuch a noble cauſe, Men fit to bear
The weight of Empires; Fortune, Rank, and Senſe,
Virtue and Knowledge, leagu'd with Eloquence,
[27] March in their ranks; FREEDOM from file to file
Darts her delighted eye, and with a ſmile
Approves her honeſt Sons, whilſt down her cheek,
As 'twere by ſtealth (her heart too full to ſpeak)
One Tear in ſilence creeps, one honeſt Tear,
And ſeems to ſay, Why is not GRANBY here.
O Ye brave Few, in whom we ſtill may find
A Love of Virtue, Freedom, and Mankind,
Go forth—in Majeſty of Woe array'd,
See, at your feet Your COUNTRY kneels for aid,
And, (many of her children traitors grown,)
Kneels to thoſe Sons She ſtill can call her own,
Seeming to breathe her laſt in ev'ry breath,
She kneels for Freedom, or She begs for Death—
Fly then, each duteous Son, each Engliſh Chief,
And to your drooping Parent bring relief.
Go forth—nor let the Siren voice of eaſe
Tempt Ye to ſleep, whilſt tempeſts ſwell the ſeas;
Go forth—nor let Hypocriſy, whoſe tongue
With many a fair, falſe, fatal art is hung,
Like Bethel's fawning Prophet, croſs your way,
When your great Errand brooks not of delay;
[28] Nor let vain Fear, who cries to all She meets,
Trembling and pale—A Lion in the ſtreets—
Damp your free Spirits; let not threats affright,
Nor Bribes corrupt, nor Flatteries delight.
Be as One Man—CONCORD ſucceſs enſures—
There's not an Engliſh heart but what is Your's.
Go forth—and VIRTUE, ever in your ſight,
Shall be your guide by day, your guard by night—
Go forth—the Champions of your native land,
And may the battle proſper in your hand—
It may, it Muſt—Ye cannot be withſtood—
Be your Hearts honeſt, as your Cauſe is good.
THE END.