Classic Poem

When with much pains this boasted learning's got,
'Tis an affront to those who have it not.
In some it causes hate, in others fear,
Instructs our foes to rail, our friends to sneer.
With prudent haste the worldly-minded fool,
Forgets the little which he learned at school;
The elder brother, to vast fortunes born,
Looks on all science with an eye of scorn;
Dependent breth'ren the same features wear,
And younger sons are stupid as the heir.
In senates, at the bar, in church and state,
Genius is vile, and learning out of date.
Is this — O death to think! is this the land
Where merit and reward went hand in hand,
Where heroes, parent-like, the poet viewed? —
By whom they saw their glorious deeds renewed;
Where poets, true to honour, tuned their lays,
And by their patrons sanctified their praise?
Is this the land, where, on our Spencer's tongue,
Enamoured of his voice, Description hung;
Where Johnson rigid gravity beguiled,
Whilst Reason through her critic fences smiled;
Where Nature list'ning stood, whilst Shakespeare played,
And wondered at the work herself had made?
Is this the land, where, mindful of her charge
And office high, fair Freedom walked at large;
Where, finding in our laws a sure defence,
She mocked at all restraints, but those of sense;
Where, health and honour trooping by her side,
She spread her sacred empire far and wide;
Pointed the way, affliction to beguile,
And bade the face of sorrow wear a smile,
Bade those, who dare obey the gen'rous call,
Enjoy her blessings, which God meant for all?
Is this the land, where, in some tyrant's reign,
When a weak, wicked ministerial train,
The tools of pow'r, the slaves of int'rest, planned
Their country's ruin, and with bribes unmanned
Those wretches, who, ordained in freedom's cause,
Gave up our liberties, and sold our laws;
When pow'r was taught by meanness where to go,
Nor dared to love the virtue of a foe;
When, like a lep'rous plague, from the foul head
To the foul heart her sores Corruption spread,
Her iron arm when stern Oppression reared,
And Virtue, from her broad base shaken, feared
The scourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain,
Poor Freedom bowed the neck to slav'ry's chain;
Is this the land, where, in those worst of times,
The hardy poet raised his honest rhymes
To dread rebuke, and bade controlment speak
In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek,
Bade pow'r turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe,
And made them fear the Muse, who feared not law?