<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354706" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Independence</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Happy the bard (though few such bards we find)<br>Who, 'bove controlment, dares to speak his mind;<br>Dares, unabash'd, in every place appear,<br>And nothing fears, but what he ought to fear:<br>Him Fashion cannot tempt, him abject Need<br>Cannot compel, him Pride cannot mislead<br>To be the slave of Greatness, to strike sail<br>When, sweeping onward with her peacock's tail,<br>Quality in full plumage passes by;<br>He views her with a fix'd, contemptuous eye, <br>And mocks the puppet, keeps his own due state,<br>And is above conversing with the great.<br>Perish those slaves, those minions of the quill,<br>Who have conspired to seize that sacred hill<br>Where the Nine Sisters pour a genuine strain,<br>And sunk the mountain level with the plain;<br>Who, with mean, private views, and servile art,<br>No spark of virtue living in their heart,<br>Have basely turn'd apostates; have debased<br>Their dignity of office; have disgraced, <br>Like Eli's sons, the altars where they stand,<br>And caused their name to stink through all the land;<br>Have stoop'd to prostitute their venal pen<br>For the support of great, but guilty men;<br>Have made the bard, of their own vile accord,<br>Inferior to that thing we call a lord.<br>What is a lord? Doth that plain simple word<br>Contain some magic spell? As soon as heard,<br>Like an alarum bell on Night's dull ear,<br>Doth it strike louder, and more strong appear <br>Than other words? Whether we will or no,<br>Through Reason's court doth it unquestion'd go<br>E'en on the mention, and of course transmit<br>Notions of something excellent; of wit<br>Pleasing, though keen; of humour free, though chaste;<br>Of sterling genius, with sound judgment graced;<br>Of virtue far above temptation's reach,<br>And honour, which not malice can impeach?<br>Believe it not--'twas Nature's first intent,<br>Before their rank became their punishment, <br>They should have pass'd for men, nor blush'd to prize<br>The blessings she bestow'd; she gave them eyes,<br>And they could see; she gave them ears--they heard;<br>The instruments of stirring, and they stirr'd;<br>Like us, they were design'd to eat, to drink,<br>To talk, and (every now and then) to think;<br>Till they, by Pride corrupted, for the sake<br>Of singularity, disclaim'd that make;<br>Till they, disdaining Nature's vulgar mode,<br>Flew off, and struck into another road, <br>More fitting Quality, and to our view<br>Came forth a species altogether new,<br>Something we had not known, and could not know,<br>Like nothing of God's making here below;<br>Nature exclaim'd with wonder--'Lords are things,<br>Which, never made by me, were made by kings.'<br>A lord (nor let the honest and the brave,<br>The true old noble, with the fool and knave<br>Here mix his fame; cursed be that thought of mine,<br>Which with a B---- and E---- should Grafton join),<br>A lord (nor here let Censure rashly call <br>My just contempt of some, abuse of all,<br>And, as of late, when Sodom was my theme,<br>Slander my purpose, and my Muse blaspheme,<br>Because she stops not, rapid in her song,<br>To make exceptions as she goes along,<br>Though well she hopes to find, another year,<br>A whole minority exceptions here),<br>A mere, mere lord, with nothing but the name,<br>Wealth all his worth, and title all his fame, <br>Lives on another man, himself a blank,<br>Thankless he lives, or must some grandsire thank<br>For smuggled honours, and ill-gotten pelf;<br>A bard owes all to Nature, and himself.<br>Gods! how my soul is burnt up with disdain,<br>When I see men, whom Phoebus in his train<br>Might view with pride, lackey the heels of those<br>Whom Genius ranks among her greatest foes!<br>And what's the cause? Why, these same sons of Scorn,<br>No thanks to them, were to a title born, <br>And could not help it; by chance hither sent,<br>And only deities by accident.<br>Had Fortune on our getting chanced to shine,<br>Their birthright honours had been yours or mine,<br>'Twas a mere random stroke; and should the Throne<br>Eye thee with favour, proud and lordly grown,<br>Thou, though a bard, might'st be their fellow yet:<br>But Felix never can be made a wit.<br>No, in good faith--that's one of those few things<br>Which Fate hath placed beyond the reach of kings: <br>Bards may be lords, but 'tis not in the cards,<br>Play how we will, to turn lords into bards.<br>A bard!--a lord!--why, let them, hand in hand,<br>Go forth as friends, and travel through the land;<br>Observe which word the people can digest<br>Most readily, which goes to market best,<br>Which gets most credit, whether men will trust<br>A bard, because they think he may be just,<br>Or on a lord will chose to risk their gains,<br>Though privilege in that point still remains. <br>A bard!--a lord!--let Reason take her scales,<br>And fairly weigh those words, see which prevails,<br>Which in the balance lightly kicks the beam,<br>And which, by sinking, we the victor deem.<br>'Tis done, and Hermes, by command of Jove,<br>Summons a synod in the sacred grove,<br>Gods throng with gods to take their chairs on high,<br>And sit in state, the senate of the sky,<br>Whilst, in a kind of parliament below,<br>Men stare at those above, and want to know <br>What they're transacting: Reason takes her stand<br>Just in the midst, a balance in her hand,<br>Which o'er and o'er she tries, and finds it true:<br>From either side, conducted full in view,<br>A man comes forth, of figure strange and queer;<br>We now and then see something like them here.<br>The first was meagre, flimsy, void of strength,<br>But Nature kindly had made up in length<br>What she in breadth denied; erect and proud,<br>A head and shoulders taller than the crowd, <br>He deem'd them pigmies all; loose hung his skin<br>O'er his bare bones; his face so very thin,<br>So very narrow, and so much beat out,<br>That physiognomists have made a doubt,<br>Proportion lost, expression quite forgot,<br>Whether it could be call'd a face or not;<br>At end of it, howe'er, unbless'd with beard,<br>Some twenty fathom length of chin appear'd;<br>With legs, which we might well conceive that Fate<br>Meant only to support a spider's weight, <br>Firmly he strove to tread, and with a stride,<br>Which show'd at once his weakness and his pride,<br>Shaking himself to pieces, seem'd to cry,<br>'Observe, good people, how I shake the sky.'<br>In his right hand a paper did he hold,<br>On which, at large, in characters of gold,<br>Distinct, and plain for those who run to see,<br>Saint Archibald had wrote L, O, R, D.<br>This, with an air of scorn, he from afar<br>Twirl'd into Reason's scales, and on that bar, <br>Which from his soul he hated, yet admired,<br>Quick turn'd his back, and, as he came, retired.<br>The judge to all around his name declared;<br>Each goddess titter'd, each god laugh'd, Jove stared,<br>And the whole people cried, with one accord,<br>'Good Heaven bless us all, is that a Lord!'<br>Such was the first--the second was a man<br>Whom Nature built on quite a different plan;<br>A bear, whom, from the moment he was born,<br>His dam despised, and left unlick'd in scorn; <br>A Babel, which, the power of Art outdone,<br>She could not finish when she had begun;<br>An utter Chaos, out of which no might,<br>But that of God, could strike one spark of light.<br>Broad were his shoulders, and from blade to blade<br>A H---- might at full length have laid;<br>Vast were his bones, his muscles twisted strong;<br>His face was short, but broader than 'twas long;<br>His features, though by Nature they were large,<br>Contentment had contrived to overcharge, <br>And bury meaning, save that we might spy<br>Sense lowering on the penthouse of his eye;<br>His arms were two twin oaks; his legs so stout<br>That they might bear a Mansion-house about;<br>Nor were they, look but at his body there,<br>Design'd by Fate a much less weight to bear.<br>O'er a brown cassock, which had once been black,<br>Which hung in tatters on his brawny back,<br>A sight most strange, and awkward to behold,<br>He threw a covering of blue and gold. <br>Just at that time of life, when man, by rule,<br>The fop laid down, takes up the graver fool,<br>He started up a fop, and, fond of show,<br>Look'd like another Hercules turn'd beau,<br>A subject met with only now and then,<br>Much fitter for the pencil than the pen;<br>Hogarth would draw him (Envy must allow)<br>E'en to the life, was Hogarth living now.<br>With such accoutrements, with such a form,<br>Much like a porpoise just before a storm, <br>Onward he roll'd; a laugh prevail'd around;<br>E'en Jove was seen to simper; at the sound<br>(Nor was the cause unknown, for from his youth<br>Himself he studied by the glass of Truth)<br>He joined their mirth; nor shall the gods condemn,<br>If, whilst they laugh at him, he laugh'd at them.<br>Judge Reason view'd him with an eye of grace,<br>Look'd through his soul, and quite forgot his face,<br>And, from his hand received, with fair regard<br>Placed in her other scale the name of Bard. <br>Then, (for she did as judges ought to do,<br>She nothing of the case beforehand knew,<br>Nor wish'd to know; she never stretch'd the laws,<br>Nor, basely to anticipate a cause,<br>Compell'd solicitors, no longer free,<br>To show those briefs she had no right to see)<br>Then she with equal hand her scales held out,<br>Nor did the cause one moment hang in doubt;<br>She held her scales out fair to public view,<br>The Lord, as sparks fly upwards, upwards flew, <br>More light than air, deceitful in the weight;<br>The Bard, preponderating, kept his state;<br>Reason approved, and with a voice, whose sound<br>Shook earth, shook heaven, on the clearest ground<br>Pronouncing for the Bards a full decree,<br>Cried--'Those must honour them, who honour me;<br>They from this present day, where'er I reign,<br>In their own right, precedence shall obtain;<br>Merit rules here: be it enough that Birth<br>Intoxicates, and sways the fools of earth.' <br>Nor think that here, in hatred to a lord,<br>I've forged a tale, or alter'd a record;<br>Search when you will, (I am not now in sport)<br>You'll find it register'd in Reason's court.<br>Nor think that Envy here hath strung my lyre,<br>That I depreciate what I most admire,<br>And look on titles with an eye of scorn,<br>Because I was not to a title born.<br>By Him that made me, I am much more proud,<br>More inly satisfied to have a crowd <br>Point at me as I pass, and cry--'That's he--<br>A poor but honest bard, who dares be free<br>Amidst corruption,' than to have a train<br>Of flickering levee slaves, to make me vain<br>Of things I ought to blush for; to run, fly,<br>And live but in the motion of my eye;<br>When I am less than man, my faults to adore,<br>And make me think that I am something more.<br>Recall past times, bring back the days of old,<br>When the great noble bore his honours bold, <br>And in the face of peril, when he dared<br>Things which his legal bastard, if declared,<br>Might well discredit; faithful to his trust,<br>In the extremest points of justice, just,<br>Well knowing all, and loved by all he knew,<br>True to his king, and to his country true;<br>Honest at court, above the baits of gain,<br>Plain in his dress, and in his manners plain;<br>Moderate in wealth, generous, but not profuse,<br>Well worthy riches, for he knew their use; <br>Possessing much, and yet deserving more,<br>Deserving those high honours which he wore<br>With ease to all, and in return gain'd fame<br>Which all men paid, because he did not claim.<br>When the grim war was placed in dread array,<br>Fierce as the lion roaring for his prey,<br>Or lioness of royal whelps foredone;<br>In peace, as mild as the departing sun,<br>A general blessing wheresoe'er he turn'd,<br>Patron of learning, nor himself unlearn'd; <br>Ever awake at Pity's tender call,<br>A father of the poor, a friend to all;<br>Recall such times, and from the grave bring back<br>A worth like this, my heart shall bend, or crack,<br>My stubborn pride give way, my tongue proclaim,<br>And every Muse conspire to swell his fame,<br>Till Envy shall to him that praise allow<br>Which she cannot deny to Temple now.<br>This justice claims, nor shall the bard forget,<br>Delighted with the task, to pay that debt, <br>To pay it like a man, and in his lays,<br>Sounding such worth, prove his own right to praise.<br>But let not pride and prejudice misdeem,<br>And think that empty titles are my theme;<br>Titles, with me, are vain, and nothing worth;<br>I reverence virtue, but I laugh at birth.<br>Give me a lord that's honest, frank, and brave,<br>I am his friend, but cannot be his slave;<br>Though none, indeed, but blockheads would pretend<br>To make a slave, where they may make a friend; <br>I love his virtues, and will make them known,<br>Confess his rank, but can't forget my own.<br>Give me a lord, who, to a title born,<br>Boasts nothing else, I'll pay him scorn with scorn.<br>What! shall my pride (and pride is virtue here)<br>Tamely make way if such a wretch appear?<br>Shall I uncover'd stand, and bend my knee<br>To such a shadow of nobility,<br>A shred, a remnant? he might rot unknown<br>For any real merit of his own, <br>And never had come forth to public note<br>Had he not worn, by chance, his father's coat.<br>To think a M---- worth my least regards,<br>Is treason to the majesty of bards.<br>By Nature form'd (when, for her honour's sake,<br>She something more than common strove to make,<br>When, overlooking each minute defect,<br>And all too eager to be quite correct,<br>In her full heat and vigour she impress'd<br>Her stamp most strongly on the favour'd breast) <br>The bard, (nor think too lightly that I mean<br>Those little, piddling witlings, who o'erween<br>Of their small parts, the Murphys of the stage,<br>The Masons and the Whiteheads of the age,<br>Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,<br>And drawl out measured prose, which they call verse)<br>The real bard, whom native genius fires,<br>Whom every maid of Castaly inspires,<br>Let him consider wherefore he was meant,<br>Let him but answer Nature's great intent, <br>And fairly weigh himself with other men,<br>Would ne'er debase the glories of his pen,<br>Would in full state, like a true monarch, live,<br>Nor bate one inch of his prerogative.<br>Methinks I see old Wingate frowning here,<br>(Wingate may in the season be a peer,<br>Though now, against his will, of figures sick,<br>He's forced to diet on arithmetic,<br>E'en whilst he envies every Jew he meets,<br>Who cries old clothes to sell about the streets) <br>Methinks (his mind with future honours big,<br>His Tyburn bob turn'd to a dress'd bag wig)<br>I hear him cry--'What doth this jargon mean?<br>Was ever such a damn'd dull blockhead seen?<br>Majesty!--Bard!--Prerogative!--DisdainHath got into, and turn'd the fellow's brain:<br>To Bethlem with him--give him whips and straw--<br>I'm very sensible he's mad in law.<br>A saucy groom, who trades in reason, thus<br>To set himself upon a par with us; <br>If this _here's_ suffered, and if that _there_ fool,<br>May, when he pleases, send us all to school,<br>Why, then our only business is outright<br>To take our caps, and bid the world good night.<br>I've kept a bard myself this twenty years,<br>But nothing of this kind in him appears;<br>He, like a thorough true-bred spaniel, licks<br>The hand which cuffs him, and the foot which kicks;<br>He fetches and he carries, blacks my shoes,<br>Nor thinks it a discredit to his Muse; <br>A creature of the right chameleon hue,<br>He wears my colours, yellow or true blue,<br>Just as I wear them: 'tis all one to him<br>Whether I change through conscience, or through whim.<br>Now this is something like; on such a plan<br>A bard may find a friend in a great man;<br>But this proud coxcomb--zounds, I thought that all<br>Of this queer tribe had been like my old Paul.'<br>Injurious thought! accursed be the tongue<br>On which the vile insinuation hung, <br>The heart where 'twas engender'd; cursed be those,<br>Those bards, who not themselves alone expose,<br>But me, but all, and make the very name<br>By which they're call'd a standing mark of shame.<br>Talk not of custom--'tis the coward's plea,<br>Current with fools, but passes not with me;<br>An old stale trick, which Guilt hath often tried<br>By numbers to o'erpower the better side.<br>Why tell me then that from the birth of Rhyme,<br>No matter when, down to the present time, <br>As by the original decree of Fate,<br>Bards have protection sought amongst the great;<br>Conscious of weakness, have applied to them<br>As vines to elms, and, twining round their stem,<br>Flourish'd on high; to gain this wish'd support<br>E'en Virgil to Maecenas paid his court?<br>As to the custom, 'tis a point agreed,<br>But 'twas a foolish diffidence, not need,<br>From which it rose; had bards but truly known<br>That strength, which is most properly their own, <br>Without a lord, unpropp'd they might have stood,<br>And overtopp'd those giants of the wood.<br>But why, when present times my care engage,<br>Must I go back to the Augustan age?<br>Why, anxious for the living, am I led<br>Into the mansions of the ancient dead?<br>Can they find patrons nowhere but at Rome,<br>And must I seek Maecenas in the tomb?<br>Name but a Wingate, twenty fools of note<br>Start up, and from report Maecenas quote; <br>Under his colours lords are proud to fight,<br>Forgetting that Maecenas was a knight:<br>They mention him, as if to use his name<br>Was, in some measure, to partake his fame,<br>Though Virgil, was he living, in the street<br>Might rot for them, or perish in the Fleet.<br>See how they redden, and the charge disclaim--<br>Virgil, and in the Fleet!--forbid it, Shame!<br>Hence, ye vain boasters! to the Fleet repair,<br>And ask, with blushes ask, if Lloyd is there! <br>Patrons in days of yore were men of sense,<br>Were men of taste, and had a fair pretence<br>To rule in letters--some of them were heard<br>To read off-hand, and never spell a word;<br>Some of them, too, to such a monstrous height<br>Was learning risen, for themselves could write,<br>And kept their secretaries, as the great<br>Do many other foolish things, for state.<br>Our patrons are of quite a different strain,<br>With neither sense nor taste; against the grain <br>They patronise for Fashion's sake--no more--<br>And keep a bard, just as they keep a whore.<br>Melcombe (on such occasions I am loth<br>To name the dead) was a rare proof of both.<br>Some of them would be puzzled e'en to read,<br>Nor could deserve their clergy by their creed;<br>Others can write, but such a Pagan hand,<br>A Willes should always at our elbow stand:<br>Many, if begg'd, a Chancellor, of right,<br>Would order into keeping at first sight. <br>Those who stand fairest to the public view<br>Take to themselves the praise to others due,<br>They rob the very spital, and make free<br>With those, alas! who've least to spare. We see<br>---- hath not had a word to say,<br>Since winds and waves bore Singlespeech away.<br>Patrons, in days of yore, like patrons now,<br>Expected that the bard should make his bow<br>At coming in, and every now and then<br>Hint to the world that they were more than men; <br>But, like the patrons of the present day,<br>They never bilk'd the poet of his pay.<br>Virgil loved rural ease, and, far from harm,<br>Maecenas fix'd him in a neat, snug farm,<br>Where he might, free from trouble, pass his days<br>In his own way, and pay his rent in praise.<br>Horace loved wine, and, through his friend at court,<br>Could buy it off the quay in every port:<br>Horace loved mirth, Maecenas loved it too;<br>They met, they laugh'd, as Goy and I may do, <br>Nor in those moments paid the least regard<br>To which was minister, and which was bard.<br>Not so our patrons--grave as grave can be,<br>They know themselves, they keep up dignity;<br>Bards are a forward race, nor is it fit<br>That men of fortune rank with men of wit:<br>Wit, if familiar made, will find her strength--<br>'Tis best to keep her weak, and at arm's length.<br>'Tis well enough for bards, if patrons give,<br>From hand to mouth, the scanty means to live. <br>Such is their language, and their practice such;<br>They promise little, and they give not much.<br>Let the weak bard, with prostituted strain,<br>Praise that proud Scot whom all good men disdain;<br>What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone,<br>He may obtain a patent for the run<br>Of his lord's kitchen, and have ample time,<br>With offal fed, to court the cook in rhyme;<br>Or (if he strives true patriots to disgrace)<br>May at the second table get a place; <br>With somewhat greater slaves allow'd to dine,<br>And play at crambo o'er his gill of wine.<br>And are there bards, who, on creation's file,<br>Stand rank'd as men, who breathe in this fair isle<br>The air of freedom, with so little gall,<br>So low a spirit, prostrate thus to fall<br>Before these idols, and without a groan<br>Bear wrongs might call forth murmurs from a stone?<br>Better, and much more noble, to abjure<br>The sight of men, and in some cave, secure <br>From all the outrages of Pride, to feast<br>On Nature's salads, and be free at least.<br>Better, (though that, to say the truth, is worse<br>Than almost any other modern curse)<br>Discard all sense, divorce the thankless Muse,<br>Critics commence, and write in the Reviews;<br>Write without tremor, Griffiths cannot read;<br>No fool can fail, where Langhorne can succeed.<br>But (not to make a brave and honest pride<br>Try those means first, she must disdain when tried) <br>There are a thousand ways, a thousand arts,<br>By which, and fairly, men of real parts<br>May gain a living, gain what Nature craves;<br>Let those, who pine for more, live, and be slaves.<br>Our real wants in a small compass lie,<br>But lawless appetite, with eager eye,<br>Kept in a constant fever, more requires,<br>And we are burnt up with our own desires.<br>Hence our dependence, hence our slavery springs;<br>Bards, if contented, are as great as kings. <br>Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill;<br>We may be independent, if we will.<br>The man who suits his spirit to his state<br>Stands on an equal footing with the great;<br>Moguls themselves are not more rich, and he<br>Who rules the English nation, not more free.<br>Chains were not forged more durable and strong<br>For bards than others, but they've worn them long,<br>And therefore wear them still; they've quite forgot<br>What Freedom is, and therefore prize her not. <br>Could they, though in their sleep, could they but know<br>The blessings which from Independence flow;<br>Could they but have a short and transient gleam<br>Of Liberty, though 'twas but in a dream,<br>They would no more in bondage bend their knee,<br>But, once made freemen, would be always free.<br>The Muse, if she one moment freedom gains,<br>Can nevermore submit to sing in chains.<br>Bred in a cage, far from the feather'd throng,<br>The bird repays his keeper with his song; <br>But if some playful child sets wide the door,<br>Abroad he flies, and thinks of home no more,<br>With love of liberty begins to burn,<br>And rather starves than to his cage return.<br>Hail, Independence!--by true reason taught,<br>How few have known, and prized thee as they ought!<br>Some give thee up for riot; some, like boys,<br>Resign thee, in their childish moods, for toys;<br>Ambition some, some avarice, misleads,<br>And in both cases Independence bleeds. <br>Abroad, in quest of thee, how many roam,<br>Nor know they had thee in their reach at home;<br>Some, though about their paths, their beds about,<br>Have never had the sense to find thee out:<br>Others, who know of what they are possess'd,<br>Like fearful misers, lock thee in a chest,<br>Nor have the resolution to produce,<br>In these bad times, and bring thee forth for use.<br>Hail, Independence!--though thy name's scarce known,<br>Though thou, alas! art out of fashion grown, <br>Though all despise thee, I will not despise,<br>Nor live one moment longer than I prize<br>Thy presence, and enjoy: by angry Fate<br>Bow'd down, and almost crush'd, thou cam'st, though late,<br>Thou cam'st upon me, like a second birth,<br>And made me know what life was truly worth.<br>Hail, Independence!--never may my cot,<br>Till I forget thee, be by thee forgot:<br>Thither, oh! thither, oftentimes repair;<br>Cotes, whom thou lovest too, shall meet thee there. <br>All thoughts but what arise from joy give o'er,<br>Peace dwells within, and law shall guard the door.<br>O'erweening Bard! Law guard thy door! What law?<br>The law of England. To control and awe<br>Those saucy hopes, to strike that spirit dumb,<br>Behold, in state, Administration come!<br>Why, let her come, in all her terrors too;<br>I dare to suffer all she dares to do.<br>I know her malice well, and know her pride,<br>I know her strength, but will not change my side. <br>This melting mass of flesh she may control<br>With iron ribs--she cannot chain my soul.<br>No--to the last resolved her worst to bear,<br>I'm still at large, and independent there.<br>Where is this minister? where is the band<br>Of ready slaves, who at his elbow stand<br>To hear, and to perform his wicked will?<br>Why, for the first time, are they slow to ill?<br>When some grand act 'gainst law is to be done,<br>Doth ---- sleep; doth blood-hound ---- run <br>To L----, and worry those small deer,<br>When he might do more precious mischief here?<br>Doth Webb turn tail? doth he refuse to draw<br>Illegal warrants, and to call them law?<br>Doth ----, at Guildford kick'd, from Guildford run,<br>With that cold lump of unbaked dough, his son,<br>And, his more honest rival Ketch to cheat,<br>Purchase a burial-place where three ways meet?<br>Believe it not; ---- is ---- still,<br>And never sleeps, when he should wake to ill: <br>---- doth lesser mischiefs by the by,<br>The great ones till the term in _petto_ lie:<br>---- lives, and, to the strictest justice true,<br>Scorns to defraud the hangman of his due.<br>O my poor Country!--weak, and overpower'd<br>By thine own sons--ate to the bone--devour'd<br>By vipers, which, in thine own entrails bred,<br>Prey on thy life, and with thy blood are fed,<br>With unavailing grief thy wrongs I see,<br>And, for myself not feeling, feel for thee. <br>I grieve, but can't despair--for, lo! at hand<br>Freedom presents a choice, but faithful band<br>Of loyal patriots; men who greatly dare<br>In such a noble cause; men fit to bear<br>The weight of empires; Fortune, Rank, and Sense,<br>Virtue and Knowledge, leagued with Eloquence,<br>March in their ranks; Freedom from file to file<br>Darts her delighted eye, and with a smile<br>Approves her honest sons, whilst down her cheek,<br>As 'twere by stealth, (her heart too full to speak) <br>One tear in silence creeps, one honest tear,<br>And seems to say, Why is not Granby here?'<br>O ye brave few, in whom we still may find<br>A love of virtue, freedom, and mankind!<br>Go forth--in majesty of woe array'd,<br>See at your feet your Country kneels for aid,<br>And, (many of her children traitors grown)<br>Kneels to those sons she still can call her own;<br>Seeming to breathe her last in every breath,<br>She kneels for freedom, or she begs for death-- <br>Fly, then, each duteous son, each English chief,<br>And to your drooping parent bring relief.<br>Go forth--nor let the siren voice of Ease<br>Tempt ye to sleep, whilst tempests swell the seas;<br>Go forth--nor let Hypocrisy, whose tongue<br>With many a fair, false, fatal art is hung,<br>Like Bethel's fawning prophet, cross your way,<br>When your great errand brooks not of delay;<br>Nor let vain Fear, who cries to all she meets,<br>Trembling and pale, 'A lion in the streets,' <br>Damp your free spirits; let not threats affright,<br>Nor bribes corrupt, nor flatteries delight:<br>Be as one man--concord success ensures--<br>There's not an English heart but what is yours.<br>Go forth--and Virtue, ever in your sight,<br>Shall be your guide by day, your guard by night--<br>Go forth--the champions of your native land,<br>And may the battle prosper in your hand--<br>It may, it must--ye cannot be withstood--<br>Be your hearts honest, as your cause is good!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charles+Churchill">Charles Churchill</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354706" data-title="Independence de Charles Churchill" data-description="Happy the bard (though few such bards we find) Who, 'bove controlment, dares to speak his mind; Dares, unabash'd, in every place appear, And nothing fears, but what he ought to fear: Him Fashion cannot tempt, him abject Need Cannot compel, him Pri..."></div> </div> </div>

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