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 favor'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 who 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, Who think it freedom when a part aspires! Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, Except when fast approaching danger warms; But, when contending chiefs blockade the throne, Contracting regal power to stretch their own-- When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free-- Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, Law grinds the poor, and rich men rule the law-- The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home-- Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart: Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, brother! curse with me that baleful hour When first ambition struck at regal power; And thus, polluting honor in its source, Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchang'd for useless ore? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste? Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern depopulation in her train-- And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, In barren, solitary pomp repose? Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, The smiling, long frequented village fall? Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, The modest matron, and the blushing maid, Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main-- Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Níagara stuns with thundering sound? [Illustration: FROM THEIR HOMES, A MELANCHOLY TRAIN]