Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old! Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold; War in each breast, and freedom on each brow;— How much unlike the sons of Britain now! Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide; There all around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentle music melts on every spray; Creation's mildest charms are there combined, Extremes are only in the master's mind! Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, With daring aims irregularly great; Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by; Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagined right, above control, While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy, But, foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy: That independence Britons prize too high Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown; Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd: Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore, Till, overwrought, the general system feels Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As Nature's ties decay, As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to these alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown: Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote far fame, One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, I mean to flatter kings or court the great: Ye powers of truth that bid my soul aspire, Far from my bosom drive the low desire; And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel; Thou transitory flower, alike undone By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun, Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, I only would repress them to secure: For just experience tells, in every soil, That those that think must govern those that toil; And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach, Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow, Its double weight must ruin all below. Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires,