Oh liberty! the pris'ner's pleafing dream,
The poet's mufe, his paffion and his theme;
Genius is thine, and thou art fancy's nurse;

Loft without thee th' ennobling pow'rs of verfe;
Heroic fong from thy free touch acquires

Its clearest tone, the rapture it inspires;

Place me where winter breathes his keeneft air,

And I will fing, if liberty be there;

And I will fing, at liberty's dear feet,

In Afric's torrid clime, or India's fierceft heat.

A. Sing where you please, in such a cause, I grant

An English poet's privilege to rant;

But is not freedom-at least, is not our's

Too apt to play the wanton with her pow'rs,

Grow freakish, and, o'erleaping ev'ry mound,
Spread anarchy and terror all around?

B. Agreed. But would you fell or flay your horse For bounding and curvetting in his course;

Or if, when ridden with a careless rein,

He break away, and seek the distant plain?

No. His high metal, under good controul,

Gives him Olympic fpeed, and fhoots him to the goal. Let discipline employ her wholesome arts;

Let magistrates alert perform their parts,

Not skulk or put on a prudential mask,

As if their duty were a defp'rate task;
Let active laws apply the needful curb
To guard the peace that riot would disturb;
And liberty, preferv'd from wild excess,
Shall raife no feuds for armies to fupprefs.
When tumult lately burft his prifon door,
And fet plebeian thousands in a roar;
When he ufurp'd authority's just place,

And dar'd to look his master in the face;
When the rude rabble's watch-word was-destroy,

And blazing London seem'd a second Troy;
Liberty blush'd, and hung her drooping head,
Beheld their progrefs with the deepest dread;
Blush'd, that effects like these she should produce,
Worfe than the deeds of galley-flaves broke loose.

VOL. I.

She lofes in fuch ftorms her very name,

And fierce licentioufnefs fhould bear the blame.

Incomparable gem! thy worth untold;

Cheap, though blood-bought; and thrown away when

fold;

May no foes ravish thee, and no falfe friend

Betray thee, while profeffing to defend;

Prize it, ye minifters; ye monarchs, fpare;
Ye patriots, guard it with a miser's care.

A. Patriots, alas! the few that have been found,
Where moft they flourish, upon English ground,
The country's need have scantily supplied,

And the last left the scene when Chatham died.

B. Not fo-the virtue ftill adorns our age,
Though the chief actor died upon the stage.
In him Demofthenes was heard again;
Liberty taught him her Athenian strain;
She cloth'd him with authority and awe,
Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law.
His fpeech, his form, his action, full of grace,
And all his country beaming in his face,

He stood, as fome inimitable hand

Would strive to make a Paul or Tully ftand.
No fycophant or flave, that dar'd oppose

Her facred cause, but trembled when he rofe;
And ev'ry venal ftickler for the yoke

Felt himself crushed at the first word he spoke.

Such men are rais'd to station and command,
When Providence means mercy to a land.

He fpeaks, and they appear; to him they owe
Skill to direct, and strength to ftrike, the blow;
To manage with address, to seize with pow'r,
The crifis of a dark decifive hour.

So Gideon earn'd a vict'ry not his own;
Subferviency his praise, and that alone.

Poor England! thou art a devoted deer,

Beset with ev'ry ill but that of fear.

The nations hunt; all mark thee for a prey;

They fwarm around thee, and thou stand'st at bay. Undaunted still, though wearied and perplex'd,

Once Chatham fav'd thee; but who faves thee next?

Alas! the tide of pleasure sweeps along

All that should be the boast of British fong. 'Tis not the wreath that once adorn'd thy brow,

The prize of happier times, will serve thee now. Our ancestry; a gallant christian race,

Patterns of ev'ry virtue, ev'ry grace,

Confefs'd a God; they kneel'd before they fought,
And prais'd him in the victories he wrought.
Now from the duft of antient days bring forth
Their fober zeal, integrity, and worth;

Courage, ungrac'd by thefe, affronts the fkies,
Is but the fire without the facrifice.

The stream that feeds the well-fpring of the heart
Not more invigorates life's noblest part,

Than virtue quickens, with a warmth divine,
The pow'rs that fin has brought to a decline.
A. Th' ineftimable estimate of Brown
Rofe like a paper-kite, and charm'd the town;
But measures, plann'd and executed well,
Shifted the wind that rais'd it, and it fell.