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1100,

The shiftless beggar bears of ills the worst,
At once with dulness, and with hunger curst.
And feels the tasteless breast equestrian fires?
And dwells such mighty rage in graver Squires?

In all attempts, but for their Country, bold, Britain, thy Conscript Counsellors behold; (For some, perhaps, by Fortune favor'd yet, May gain a borough from a lucky bet) Smit with the love of the laconic boot, The cap, and wig succinct, the silken suit, Meer modern Phaetons, usurp the rein, And scour in rival race the tempting plain. 110 See, side by side, his Jockey and Sir John Discuss th' important point-of six to one. For O! the boasted privilege how dear, How great the pride, to gain a Jockey's ear! See, like a routed host, with headlong pace, Thy Members pour amid the mingling race! All ask, what crowds the tumult could produceIs Bedlam, or the Commons all broke loose ? Their way nor reason guides nor caution checks, Proud on a high-bred thing to risque their necks./20 Thy sages hear, amid th' admiring crowd Adjudge the stakes, most eloquently loud: With critic skill, o'er dubious bets preside, The low dispute, or kindle, or decide: All empty wisdom, and judicious prate, Of distanc'd horses gravely fix the fate,

And with paternal care unwearied watch

O'er the nice conduct of a daring match.

Mean time no more the mimic patriots rise, To guard Britannia's honor, warm and wise:_30 No more in senates dare assert her laws, Nor pour the bold debate in Freedom's cause: Neglect the counsels of a sinking land,

And know no rostrum but Newmarket's stand.

Is this the band of Civil Chiefs design'd
On England's weal to fix the pondering mind?
Who, while their Country's rights are set to sale,
Quit Europe's balance for the Jockey's scale.

O say, when least their sapient schemes are crost,
Or when a nation, or a match is lost? -140
Who dams and sires with more exactness trace,
Than of their Country's Kings the sacred race;
Think London journies are the worst of ills;
Subscribe to articles, instead of bills:
Strangers to all our annalists relate,

Theirs are the memoirs of th' equestrian state;
Who, lost to Albion's past and present views,
Heber, thy chronicles alone peruse.

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Go on, brave youths, till, in some future age, Whips shall become the senatorial badge; Till England see her thronging senators Meet all at Westminster, in boots and spurs;

See the whole House, with mutual frenzy mad,
Her patriots all in leathern breeches clad;
Of bets, not taxes, learnedly debate,

And guide, with equal reins, a steed or state.

How would a virtuous Houyhnhnm neigh disdain,
To see his brethren brook th' imperious rein;
Bear slavery's wanton whip, or galling goad,
Smoak thro' the glebe, or trace the destin'd road, 6.
And, robb'd of manhood by the murderous knife,
Sustain each sordid toil of servile life!

Yet O! what rage would touch his generous mind,
To see his sons of more than human kind;

A kind, with each exalted virtue blest,
Each gentler feeling of the liberal breast,
Afford diversion to that monster base,

That meanest spawn of man's half-monkey race;
In whom pride, avarice, ignorance, conspire,
That hated animal, a Yahoo-squire.

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How are the Therons of these modern days

Chang'd from those chiefs who toil'd for Grecian

bays,

Who, fir'd with genuine glory's sacred lust,

Whirl'd the swift axle through the Pythian dust!
Theirs was the Pisan olive's blooming spray,
Theirs was the Theban Bard's recording lay.
What tho' the grooms of Greece ne'er took the odds?
They won no bets-but then they soar'd to Gods;

And more an Hiero's palm, a Pindar's ode,
Than all th' united plates of George bestow'd.

Greece! how I kindle at thy magic name, Feel all thy warmth, and catch the kindred flame. Thy scenes sublime and awful visions rise, In ancient pride before my musing eyes. Here Sparta's sons in mute attention hang, While just Lycurgus pours the mild harangue ; There Xerxes' hosts, all pale with deadly fear, Shrink at her fated Hero's flashing spear. Here, hung with many a lyre of silver string, The laureate alleys of Ilissus spring:

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And lo! where, rapt in beauty's heavenly dream, Hoar Plato walks his oliv'd Academe.

Yet ah! no more the Land of arts and arms Delights with wisdom, or with virtue warms. Lo! the stern Turk, with more than Vandal rage, Has blasted all the wreaths of ancient age: No more her groves by Fancy's feet are trod, Each Attic Grace has left the lov'd abode. Fall'n is fair Greece! by Luxry's pleasing bane Seduc'd, she drags a barbarous foreign chain. 200

Britannia, watch! O trim thy withering bays, Remember thou hast rival'd Graecia's praise, Great Nurse of works divine! yet oh! beware Lest thou the fate of Greece, my Country, share.

Recall thy wonted worth with conscious pride, Thou too hast seen a Solon in a Hyde ;

Hast bade thine Edwards and thine Henries rear, With Spartan fortitude, the British spear;

Alike hast seen thy Sons deserve the meed

Or of the moral or the martial deed.

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