And in the dust, sifted and search'd in vain, The undiscoverable secret sleeps.
But there is yet a liberty, unsung
By poets, and by senators unpraised,
Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the powers Of earth and hell, confederate, take away : A liberty, which persecution, fraud, Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind ; Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more. 'Tis liberty of heart derived from Heaven, Bought with His blood, who gave it to mankind, And seal'd with the same token. It is held By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure By the unimpeachable and awful oath And promise of a God. His other gifts
All bear the royal stamp, that speaks them His, And are august; but this transcends them all. His other works, the visible display
Of all-creating energy and might,
Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the word That, finding an interminable space Unoccupied, has fill'd the void so well,
And made so sparkling what was dark before. But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true, Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene, Might well suppose the artificer divine Meant it eternal, had he not himself Pronounced it transient, glorious as it is, And, still designing a more glorious far, Doom'd it as insufficient for his praise. These therefore are occasional, and pass; Form'd for the confutation of the fool, Whose lying heart disputes against a God; That office served, they must be swept away. Not so the labours of his love: they shine In other heavens than these that we behold, And fade not. There is Paradise that fears No forfeiture, and of its fruits he sends Large prelibation oft to saints below. Of these the first in order, and the pledge And confident assurance of the rest,
Is liberty; a flight into his arms, Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way, A clear escape from tyrannizing lust, And full immunity from penal wo.
Chains are the portion of revolted man, Stripes, and a dungeon; and his body serves The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul, Opprobrious residence he finds them all. Propense his heart to idols, he is held In silly dotage on created things, Careless of their Creator. And that low And sordid gravitation of his powers
To a vile clod so draws him, with such force Resistless, from the centre he should seek, That he at last forgets it. All his hopes Tend downward; his ambition is to sink, To reach a depth profounder still, and still Profounder in the fathomless abyss Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. But ere he gain the comfortless repose He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul In heaven-renouncing exile, he endures - What does he not, from lusts opposed in vain, And self-reproaching conscience? He foresees The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, Fortune, and dignity; the loss of all
That can ennoble man, and make frail life, Short as it is, supportable. Still worse,
Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes Ages of hopeless misery. Future death, And death still future. Not a hasty stroke, Like that which sends him to the dusty grave; But unrepealable enduring death.
Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears: What none can prove a forgery may be true, What none but bad men wish exploded, must. That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst Of laughter his compunctions are sincere ; And he abhors the jest by which he shines.
Remorse begets reform. His master-lust
Falls first before his resolute rebuke,
And seems dethroned and vanquish'd. Peace ensues,
But spurious and short-lived; the puny child Of self-congratulating pride, begot
On fancied innocence. Again he falls, And fights again; but finds his best essay A presage ominous, portending still Its own dishonour by a worse relapse. Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil'd So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt, Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd; With shallow shifts and old devices, worn And tatter'd in the service of debauch, Covering his shame from his offended sight.
"Hath God indeed given appetites to man, And stored the earth so plenteously with means To gratify the hunger of his wish;
And doth he reprobate, and will he damn The use of his own bounty? making first So frail a kind, and then enacting laws So strict, that less than perfect must despair? Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth Dishonours God, and makes a slave of man. Do they themselves, who undertake for hire The teacher's office, and dispense at large Their weekly dole of edifying strains, Attend to their own music? have they faith In what with such solemnity of tone
And gesture they propound to our belief?
Nay conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice
Is but an instrument, on which the priest
May play what tune he pleases. In the deed
The unequivocal, authentic deed,
We find sound argument, we read the heart." Such reasonings (if that name must need belong
To excuses in which reason has no part) Serve to compose a spirit well inclined To live on terms of amity with vice,
And sin without disturbance.
(As often as, libidinous discourse Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes Of theological and grave import)
They gain at last his unreserved assent; Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forge Of lust, and on the anvil of despair,
He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves, Or nothing much, his constancy in ill;
Vain tampering has but foster'd his disease; 'Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. Haste now, philosopher, and set him free: Charm the deaf serpent wisely: make him hear Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth
How lovely, and the moral sense how sure, Consulted and obey'd, to guide his steps Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR.* Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powers Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise : Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, And with poetic trappings grace thy prose, Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.- Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high-sounding brass, Smitten in vain! such music cannot charm The eclipse that intercepts truth's heavenly beam, And chills and darkens a wide-wandering soul. The still small voice is wanted. He must speak, Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect; Who calls forth things that are not, and they come.
Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change, That turns to ridicule the turgid speech And stately tone of moralists, who boast, As if, like him of fabulous renown,
They had indeed ability to smooth The shag of savage nature, and were each An Orpheus, and omnipotent in song: But transformation of apostate man
From fool to wise, from earthly to divine,
*The ro xaλov of the Greek philosophy, or the moral fitness of the moderns; the one an instinctive longing, the other a vain and presumptuous substitute for gospel truth.
Is work for Him that made him. He alone, And He by means in philosophic eyes Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves The wonder; humanizing what is brute In the lost kind, extracting from the lips Of asps their venom, overpowering strength By weakness, and hostility by love.
Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's cause Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and sculpture, in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass To guard them, and to immortalize her trust: But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, To those who, posted at the shrine of Truth, Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood, Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, And for a time ensure, to his loved land The sweets of liberty and equal laws; But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, And win it with more pain.
In confirmation of the noblest claim, Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, To walk with God, to be divinely free, To soar, and to anticipate the skies.
Yet few remember them. They lived unknown, Till Persecution dragg'd them into fame,
And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew No marble tells us whither. With their names No bard embalms and sanctifies his song: And history, so warm on meaner themes, Is cold on this. She execrates indeed The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.*
He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain
* See Hume. Author's Note. See also his own letters, where other writers are justly blamed for a similar omission.
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