To the Country Gentlemen of England. 1758

Whither is Europe's ancient spirit fled?Where are those valiant tenants of her shore,Who from the warrior bow the strong dart sped,Or with firm hand the rapid pole-axe bore?Freeman and soldier was their common name,Who late with reapers to the furrow came,Now in the front of battle charged the foe:Who taught the steer the wintry plough to endure,Now in full councils check'd encroaching power,And gave the guardian laws their majesty to know.

But who are ye? from Ebro's loitering sonsTo Tiber's pageants, to the sports of Seine;From Rhine's frail palaces to Danube's thronesAnd cities looking on the Cimbric main,Ye lost, ye self-deserted? whose proud lordsHave baffled your tame hands, and given your swordsTo slavish ruffians, hired for their command:These, at some greedy monk's or harlot's nod,See rifled nations crouch beneath their rod:These are the Public Will, the Reason of the land.

Thou, heedless Albion, what, alas, the whileDost thou presume? O inexpert in arms,Yet vain of Freedom, how dost thou beguile,With dreams of hope, these near and loud alarms?Thy splendid home, thy plan of laws renown'd,The praise and envy of the nations round,What care hast thou to guard from Fortune's sway?Amid the storms of war, how soon may allThe lofty pile from its foundations fall,Of ages the proud toil, the ruin of a day!

No: thou art rich, thy streams and fertile valesAdd Industry's wise gifts to Nature's store,And every port is crowded with thy sails,And every wave throws treasure on thy shore.What boots it? If luxurious Plenty charmThy selfish heart from Glory, if thy armShrink at the frowns of Danger and of Pain,Those gifts, that treasure is no longer thine.Oh, rather far be poor! Thy gold will shineTempting the eye of Force, and deck thee to thy bane.

But what hath Force or War to do with thee?Girt by the azure tide, and throned sublimeAmid thy floating bulwarks, thou canst see,With scorn, the fury of each hostile climeDash'd ere it reach thee. Sacred from the foeAre thy fair fields: athwart thy guardian prowNo bold invader's foot shall tempt the strand--Yet say, my country, will the waves and windObey thee? Hast thou all thy hopes resign'dTo the sky's fickle faith, the pilot's wavering hand?

For, oh! may neither Fear nor stronger Love(Love, by thy virtuous princes nobly won)Thee, last of many wretched nations, move,With mighty armies station'd round the throneTo trust thy safety. Then, farewell the claimsOf Freedom! Her proud records to the flamesThen bear, an offering at Ambition's shrine;Whate'er thy ancient patriots dared demandFrom furious John's, or faithless Charles' hand,Or what great William seal'd for his adopted line.

But if thy sons be worthy of their name,If liberal laws with liberal arts they prize,Let them from conquest, and from servile shame,In War's glad school their own protectors rise.Ye chiefly, heirs of Albion's cultured plains,Ye leaders of her bold and faithful swains,Now not unequal to your birth be found;The public voice bids arm your rural state,Paternal hamlets for your ensigns wait,And grange and fold prepare to pour their youth around.

Why are ye tardy? what inglorious careDetains you from their head, your native post?Who most their country's fame and fortune share,'Tis theirs to share her toils, her perils most.Each man his task in social life sustains.With partial labours, with domestic gains,Let others dwell: to you indulgent HeavenBy counsel and by arms the public causeTo serve for public love and love's applause,The first employment far, the noblest hire, hath given.

Have ye not heard of Lacedemon's fame?Of Attic chiefs in Freedom's war divine?Of Rome's dread generals? the Valerian name?The Fabian sons? the Scipios, matchless line?Your lot was theirs: the farmer and the swainMet his loved patron's summons from the plain;The legions gather'd; the bright eagles flew:Barbarian monarchs in the triumph mourn'd;The conquerors to their household gods return'd,And fed Calabrian flocks, and steer'd the Sabine plough.

Shall, then, this glory of the antique age,This pride of men, be lost among mankind?Shall war's heroic arts no more engageThe unbought hand, the unsubjected mind?Doth valour to the race no more belong?No more with scorn of violence and wrongDoth forming Nature now her sons inspire,That, like some mystery to few reveal'd,The skill of arms abash'd and awed they yield,And from their own defence with hopeless hearts retire?

O shame to human life, to human laws!The loose adventurer, hireling of a day,Who his fell sword without affection draws,Whose God, whose country, is a tyrant's pay,This man the lessons of the field can learn;Can every palm, which decks a warrior, earn,And every pledge of conquest: while in vain,To guard your altars, your paternal lands,Are social arms held out to your free hands:Too arduous is the lore: too irksome were the pain.

Meantime by Pleasure's lying tales allured,From the bright sun and living breeze ye stray;And deep in London's gloomy haunts immured,Brood o'er your fortune's, freedom's, health's decay.O blind of choice and to yourselves untrue!The young grove shoots, their bloom the fields renew,The mansion asks its lord, the swains their friend;While he doth riot's orgies haply share,Or tempt the gamester's dark, destroying snare,Or at some courtly shrine with slavish incense bend.

And yet full oft your anxious tongues complainThat lawless tumult prompts the rustic throng;That the rude village inmates now disdainThose homely ties which ruled their fathers long.Alas, your fathers did by other artsDraw those kind ties around their simple hearts,And led in other paths their ductile will;By succour, faithful counsel, courteous cheer,Won them the ancient manners to revere,To prize their country's peace and heaven's due rites fulfil.

But mark the judgment of experienced Time,Tutor of nations. Doth light discord tearA state, and impotent sedition's crime?The powers of warlike prudence dwell not there;The powers who to command and to obey,Instruct the valiant. There would civil swayThe rising race to manly concord tame?Oft let the marshall'd field their steps unite,And in glad splendour bring before their sightOne common cause and one hereditary fame.

Nor yet be awed, nor yet your task disown,Though war's proud votaries look on severe;Though secrets, taught erewhile to them alone,They deem profaned by your intruding ear.Let them in vain, your martial hope to quell,Of new refinements, fiercer weapons tell,And mock the old simplicity, in vain:To the time's warfare, simple or refined,The time itself adapts the warrior's mind:And equal prowess still shall equal palms obtain.

Say then, if England's youth, in earlier days,On glory's field with well-train'd armies vied,Why shall they now renounce that generous praise?Why dread the foreign mercenary's pride?Though Valois braved young Edward's gentle hand,And Albert rush'd on Henry's way-worn band,With Europe's chosen sons in arms renown'd,Yet not on Vere's bold archers long they look'd,Nor Audley's squires, nor Mowbray's yeomen brook'd:They saw their standard fall, and left their monarch bound.

Such were the laurels which your fathers won:Such glory's dictates in their dauntless breast;--Is there no voice that speaks to every son?No nobler, holier call to you address'd?Oh! by majestic Freedom, righteous Laws,By heavenly Truth's, by manly Reason's cause,Awake; attend; be indolent no more:By friendship, social peace, domestic love,Rise; arm; your country's living safety prove;And train her valiant youth, and watch around her shore.