I had much rather be myself the slave
  And wear the bonds than fasten them on him. 
  We have no slaves at home:  then why abroad? 
  And they themselves, once ferried o’er the wave
  That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 
  Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs
  Receive our air, that moment they are free;
  They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 
  That’s noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
  And jealous of the blessing.  Spread it, then,
  And let it circulate through every vein
  Of all your empire; that where Britain’s power
  Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.

  [LOVE OF ENGLAND]

  England, with all thy faults, I love thee still,
  My country! and, while yet a nook is left
  Where English minds and manners may be found,
  Shall be constrained to love thee.  Though thy clime

  Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deformed
  With dripping rains, or withered by a frost,
  I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies
  And fields without a flower, for warmer France
  With all her vines; nor for Ausonia’s groves
  Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. 
  To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime
  Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire
  Upon thy foes, was never meant my task;
  But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
  Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart
  As any thunderer there.  And I can feel
  Thy follies too, and with a just disdain
  Frown at effeminates, whose very looks
  Reflect dishonour on the land I love. 
  How, in the name of soldiership and sense,
  Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth
  And tender as a girl, all-essenced o’er
  With odours, and as profligate as sweet,
  Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
  And love when they should fight,—­when such as these
  Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
  Of her magnificent and awful cause? 
  Time was when it was praise and boast enough
  In every clime, and travel where we might,
  That we were born her children; praise enough
  To fill the ambition of a private man,
  That Chatham’s language was his mother tongue,
  And Wolfe’s great name compatriot with his own. 
  Farewell those honours, and farewell with them
  The hope of such hereafter!  They have fallen
  Each in his field of glory, one in arms,
  And one in council—­Wolfe upon the lap
  Of smiling Victory that moment won,
  And Chatham, heart-sick of his country’s shame! 
  They made us many soldiers.  Chatham still
  Consulting England’s happiness at home,
  Secured it by an unforgiving frown
  If any wronged her.  Wolfe, where’er he fought,
  Put so much of his heart into his act,
  That his example had a magnet’s force,
  And all were swift to follow whom all loved.

  Those suns are set.  Oh, rise some other such! 
  Or all that we have left is empty talk
  Of old achievements, and despair of new.