Is this the land where, on our Spenser's tongue, Enamour'd of his voice, Description hung? Where Jonson rigid Gravity beguiled,

Whilst Reason through her critic fences smiled? Where Nature listening stood whilst Shakspeare play'd,

And wonder'd at the work herself had made?
Is this the land where, mindful of her charge
And office high, fair Freedom walk'd at large?
Where, finding in our laws a sure defence,
She mock'd at all restraints but those of sense?
Where, Health and Honour trooping by her side,
She spread her sacred empire far and wide;
Pointed the way Affliction to beguile,

And bade the face of Sorrow wear a smile;
Bade those who dare obey the generous call
Enjoy her blessings, which God meant for all?
Is this the land where, in some tyrant's reign,
When a weak, wicked, ministerial train,

The tools of power, the slaves of interest, plann'd Their country's ruin, and with bribes unmann'd Those wretches who, ordain'd in Freedom's

cause,

Gave up our liberties, and sold our laws;
When Power was taught by Meanness where
to go,

Nor dared to love the virtue of a foe;
When, like a leprous plague, from the foul head
To the foul heart her sores Corruption spread,
Her iron arm when stern Oppression rear'd,
And Virtue, from her broad base shaken, fear'd
The scourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain,
Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slavery's chain;