From a foul source, more deep than we suppose, Fatally deep and dark, this grievance flows. 'Tis not that peace our glorious hopes defeats: 'Tis not the voice of Faction in the streets; 'Tis not a gross attack on Freedom made; Tis not the arm of Privilege display'd, Against the subject, whilst she wears no sting To disappoint the purpose of a king; These are no ills, or trifles, if compared With those which are contrived, though not declared. 330 Tell me, Philosopher, is it a crime To pry into the secret womb of Time; Or, born in ignorance, must we despair To reach events, and read the future there? Why, be it so--still 'tis the right of man, Imparted by his Maker, where he can, To former times and men his eye to cast, And judge of what's to come, by what is past. Should there be found, in some not distant year, (Oh, how I wish to be no prophet here!) 340 Amongst our British Lords should there be found Some great in power, in principles unsound, Who look on Freedom with an evil eye, In whom the springs of Loyalty are dry; Who wish to soar on wild Ambition's wings, Who hate the Commons, and who love not Kings; Who would divide the people and the throne, To set up separate interests of their own; Who hate whatever aids their wholesome growth, And only join with, to destroy them both; 350 Should there be found such men in after-times, May Heaven, in mercy to our grievous crimes, Allot some milder vengeance, nor to them, And to their rage, this wretched land condemn, Thou God above, on whom all states depend, Who knowest from the first their rise, and end, If there's a day mark'd in the book of Fate, When ruin must involve our equal state; When law, alas! must be no more, and we, To freedom born, must be no longer free; 360 Let not a mob of tyrants seize the helm, Nor titled upstarts league to rob the realm; Let not, whatever other ills assail, A damned aristocracy prevail. If, all too short, our course of freedom run, 'Tis thy good pleasure we should be undone, Let us, some comfort in our griefs to bring, Be slaves to one, and be that one a king. _F_. Poets, accustom'd by their trade to feign, Oft substitute creations of the brain 370 For real substance, and, themselves deceived, Would have the fiction by mankind believed. Such is your case--but grant, to soothe your pride, That you know more than all the world beside, Why deal in hints, why make a moment's doubt? Resolved, and like a man, at once speak out; Show us our danger, tell us where it lies, And, to ensure our safety, make us wise. _P_. Rather than bear the pain of thought, fools stray; The proud will rather lose than ask their way: 380 To men of sense what needs it to unfold, And tell a tale which they must know untold? In the bad, interest warps the canker'd heart, The good are hoodwink'd by the tricks of art;