Already has the child of Gallia's school The foul Philosophy that sins by rule, With all her train of reasoning, damning arts, Begot by brilliant heads on worthless hearts, Like things that quicken after Nilus' flood, The venomed birth of sunshine and of mud,-- Already has she poured her poison here O'er every charm that makes existence dear; Already blighted, with her blackening trace, The opening bloom of every social grace, And all those courtesies, that love to shoot Round virtue's stem, the flowerets of her fruit.
And, were these errors but the wanton tide Of young luxuriance or unchastened pride; The fervid follies and the faults of such As wrongly feel, because they feel too much; Then might experience make the fever less, Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess. But no; 'tis heartless, speculative ill, All youth's transgression with all age's chill; The apathy of wrong, the bosom's ice, A slow and cold stagnation into vice.
Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage, And latest folly of man's sinking age, Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, While nobler passions wage their heated strife, Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear, And dies, collecting lumber in the rear,-- Long has it palsied every grasping hand And greedy spirit through this bartering land; Turned life to traffic, set the demon gold So loose abroad that virtue's self is sold, And conscience, truth, and honesty are made To rise and fall, like other wares of trade.
Already in this free, this virtuous state, Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordained by fate, To show the world, what high perfection springs From rabble senators, and merchant kings,-- Even here already patriots learn to steal Their private perquisites from public weal, And, guardians of the country's sacred fire, Like Afric's priests, let out the flame for hire. Those vaunted demagogues, who nobly rose From England's debtors to be England's foes, Who could their monarch in their purse forget, And break allegiance, but to cancel debt, Have proved at length, the mineral's tempting hue, Which makes a patriot, can un-make him too.[2] Oh! Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant! Not Eastern bombast, not the savage rant Of purpled madmen, were they numbered all From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul, Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base, As the rank jargon of that factious race, Who, poor of heart and prodigal of words, Formed to be slaves, yet struggling to be lords, Strut forth, as patriots, from their negro-marts, And shout for rights, with rapine in their hearts. Who can, with patience, for a moment see The medley mass of pride and misery, Of whips and charters, manacles and rights, Of slaving blacks and democratic whites, And all the piebald polity that reigns In free confusion o'er Columbia's plains? To think that man, thou just and gentle God! Should stand before thee with a tyrant's rod O'er creatures like himself, with souls from thee, Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty; Away, away--I'd rather hold my neck By doubtful tenure from a sultan's beck, In climes, where liberty has scarce been named, Nor any right but that of ruling claimed, Than thus to live, where bastard Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves; Where--motley laws admitting no degree Betwixt the vilely slaved and madly free-- Alike the bondage and the license suit The brute made ruler and the man made brute.