Human Debasement. a Fragment

—IN early days, If kings were made by men, and that they were, The light of Nature clearly shows, How comes it then, that Earth is fill'd with Slaves? How comes it then, that man, this reasoning thing, This being with such faculties endow'd, This being form'd to trace the great First Cause, Through many a wond'rous path; how comes it then, That he in ev'ry clime, should cringe, should crouch, Should bend th' imploring eye, and trembling knee, To mere self-rais'd Oppressors?—Heav'ns! to think That not a tithe of all the sons of men E'er kiss'd thy sacred cup, O Liberty! To find where'er imagination roves, Millions on millions prostrate in the dust, Whilst o'er their necks, with proud contemptuous mien, Kings, Emperors, Sultans, Sophies, what you will, With all their pamper'd minious sorely press, Grinding God's creatures to the very bone. Yet man submits to all! he tamely licks The foot uprais'd to trample on his right; He shakes his chains, and in their horrid clank Finds melody; else, why not throw 'em off? Seven hundred millions of human kind Are held in base subjection—and by whom? Why, strange to tell, and what futurity, As children at the tales of witch or sprite Will bless themselves to hear, by a small troop Of weak capricious despots, fiends accurs'd, Who drench the earth with tides of human gore, And call the havock, GLORY! Britons, yes! Seven hundred millions of your fellow-men, All form'd like you the blessing to enjoy, Now drag the servile chain. Oh! fie upon't! 'Twere better far within the clay-cold cell To waste away than be at such a price! Poor whip-gall'd slaves. Oh! 'tis debasement all! 'Tis filthy cowardice, and shews that man Merits too oft by his degenerate deeds The yoke that bends him down. Power's limpid stream Must have its source within a people's heart: What flows not thence is turbid tyranny; Rank are the despot weeds which now o'er-run This' ample world, and choke each goodly growth; But, that supine and loud vaunting thing, call'd Man, Might soon eradicate so foul a pest, Would he exert those powers which God has given To be the means of good; and what more good, More rational, nay, more approaching Heav'n, Than the strong joys whicih flow from Freedom's font? Yon radient orb, vast emblem of the pow'r Who form'd him, beams alike to all mankind; The air, which like a mantle girts the world, Is too, a common good; and even so, With amplest bounty Liberty is given To man, whate'er his tint; swart, brown, or fair; Whate'er his clime, hot, cold, or temperate; Whate'er his mode of faith, whate'er his state, Or rich, or poor, great Nature cries—BE FREE. How comes it then, that man neglects the call? Nay, like the callous felon, chuckles loud Amidst corroding chains? Can that Great Cause Who made man free, both mind and body free, And gave his reason as a sentinel To guard the glorious gift: can he be pleas'd To see his rich donation cast away, Or part with inattention, as not worth Th' acceptance of his creatures? NO! my friends; Whate'er God gives, he gives to be enjoy'd, But not abuss'd; and the mean wretch who' neath A tyrant's feet this precious jewel throws, Spurns the vast Power who plac'd it in his hands. How comes it then, that minds are thus abas'd, That man, though Nature loudly calls, BE FREE! Has clos'd his ears against her, and become A mean, a grov'ling wretch! Why, thus it is, O Superstition! thou who point'st to man, And call'st the fragile piece a demi-god; Yes, thou who wand'rest o'er the world, array'd In pure Religion's mantle; thou whose breath Conveys those potent opiates to the brain Which bring on Reason's sleep; O! dark brow'd fiend, All, all these are thine!—