The Crisis. Группа авторовЧитать онлайн книгу.
hunger, Thistles from their Ass,
Shiv’ring on Mountains desolate and cold,
Strangers alike to luxury and Gold,
Forgetting, like their Sires, Want’s bitter Sting,
Disdain the *Palace of an English King;
Demand supurb additions, vast expence,
To fit it for a Lordlings Residence.
O! Shame! where art thou fled!—ye Britons, rise!
Is it for Bute’s pround Race you grant Supplies?
With just Resentment bid Mountstewart fly,
And feed his Pride beneath his Father’s Sky;
There pinch on Rocks where barren Nature sleeps;
Yes—scourge him back to his paternal †Nieps.
Weak Sov’reigns, thus their artful Minions bless;
Ask what they dare their constant answer’s YES.
When injur’d Subjects with Petitions go,
The Sov’reign, low’ring, looks an haughty NO.
Yet if his Kingship wants a fresh Supply,
Below—aye, aye,—above, Contents the cry.
Petitioners with Rebels are involv’d;
Let Bute but hint—the Parliaments dissolv’d.
This influence ‡BECKFORD labour’d to resist?
Corruption, was maintain’d, and HE dismiss’d.
Cities Petition, yet their Plague endures;
But Virtue’s rage ||quick Dissolution cures.
[print edition page 161]
Say (for you know, my Lord,) the Cause of this,
You know who Counsels and who Acts amiss.
Disguise no Truth by Specious, trite harangue;
But say, at once your Parliament’s a Gang.
If Truth’s a Crime, and George’s frown you dread,
Say in a Whisper who is at their Head?
That Question’s home—your Lordship’s silent still—
l’ll answer it myself then—frown who will.
In ancient Days when simple Monarchs saw
No better means by reigning than by law,
When sages counsell’d with an honest Heart,
And Kings religiously perform’d their part;
E’er Standing Armies were a standing Curse,
Subjects were Children, and their King a Nurse;
No Suitor unredress’d then left the Throne;
The Nurse’s Interest and the Child’s were one.
The three Estates then us’d to coalesce,
With no Intention but to save and bless.
Now Kings, Lords and Commons, faithfully agree,
Like a Banditti, in Confed’racy.
Combin’d to plunge a Nation in distress,
To double Grievances without redress.
In vain to GEORGE the suppliant Knee is bent;
He enjoins silence, suffering, and content*.
With sullen gloom he arm’s his sulky brow,
And tell us Slav’ry is our CHARTER now.
ASTONISH’D at his City’s daring cries,
He tells ’em Kings and Parliaments are wise.
Tells ’em their Constitution is controul;
That of all Trades oppression is the Soul;
[print edition page 162]
That their Protection hangs on Royal breath;
To Day ’tis slav’ry and to Morrow Death.
That all are REBELS, but that Passive Tribe,
Who kiss his Chains, his Footstool and his Bribe.
That ev’ry Subject’s Trayterous in his View,
Who dares petition, meet, consult or sue.
These Sentiments are Bute’s by Mansfield penn’d;
Mansfield who tells us he is Virtues Friend.*
This Doctrine good my Lord, full scope affords,
To your vile Commons and your supple Lords.
Since ev’ry Act brings forth some Grievance new,
Enlarge the narrow bounds of Treason too.
Like Mary’s Minion in her Tyrant Reign,
Enlarge Old Edwards †Act amend, explain,
Shew Edward’s Sages they mistook the Case;
Declare new Treasons—’tis an Act of Grace.
Declare it Treason but to wish Success‡
To Freedom’s Arms, or Supplicate redress;
Work your new Doctor’s Insult into Fact;
’Tis Johnson’s Thought, so call it Johnson’s Act.
Go farther still, and stop the teeming Press;
If wishing’s Treason, writing is no less.
Safe in your Votes, Corruption now invites:
This is your Time—Lop off the Hand that writes.
By Libels full of Truth, your Mansfield bleeds,
And Bute still dreads Impeachement’s swelling Seeds.
Preserve your Sov’reign in Tyrannic Health;
Nor let him read the CRISIS but by Stealth.
No Quarter to that whiggish CRISIS give;
[print edition page 163]
But let the Tory Patriot’s*Falsehoods live.
Let Johnson’s Sheets attract the Monarch’s Eye;
There he may see how Knaves well Paid can lye.
In Johnson’s Tenets let him read his own;
That Kings are born to laugh whilst Subjects groan;
That POWER is their’s in Supplication’s spite;
Whatever They and Heav’n inflict, is right.
When Kings for wanton Slaughter give the Word,
Subjects are bound to fall upon their Sword.
When Kings by Famine choose their Slaves shou’d dye;
Those Slaves must drop without an asking Eye.
So much for Life—to claim our own is vain:
Like Montesquieu they †fancy who complain.
What has a Slave? nor Fire, nor Cloaths, nor Meat;
Not for themselves they’re warm’d, or cloath’d, or eat;
But to defend their Master in his Pride;
Their Sov’reign; who may Tax their very Hide.
Flay off their Skin in Wantonness and Sport,
Or send an Order for their Heads from Court.
Shou’d Freedom’s odious Form presume