Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, While ev❜n the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom,thine the blessings pictur'd here, Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; Too bless'd indeed. were such without alloy, But foster'd ev'n by Freedom ills annoy; That independence Britains 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, over-wrought, the general system feels Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feed By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun; For just experience tells, in every soil, That those who think, must govern those that toil; Oh then, how blind to all that truth requires, To call it freedom when themselves are free; I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, brother, curse me with that baleful hour, When first ambition struck at regal pow'r ; And thus polluting honour in its source, Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useless sons exchang'd for useless ore? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, Ev'n now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways; Where beast with man divided empire claim, Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Luke's iron crown,* and Damien's bed of steel, In the Respublica Hungarica,' there is an account of a desperate rebellion in the year 1514, headed by two brothers, George and Luke Zeck. When it was quelled, George, not Luke, was punished by his head being encircled with a red hot iron crown. Mr. Boswell pointed out Goldsmith's mistake. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. (FIRST PRINTED in 1769.) DEAR SIR, TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. I CAN have no expectations in an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel; and I may lose much by the se verity of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulg d at present in following my affections. The only declaration I ever made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to you. How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire: but I know you will object (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion) that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer, than that I sincerely believe what VOL. XXX. D |