IX

The root of our infirmity is found In English liberty, grandly achieved, Yet little understood and ill conceived, And sprouting rank from the uncultured ground. Too much the thought prevails that man unbound Is man made free, a life oft unretrieved From chaos by a content; undeceived Only when licence runs the ship aground. O England! Mother! whom thine every child Loves, surely, to the last, forgive that some Must fear the loss of thy benignant strength Through the mind’s error—lest, too freely wild, Thy liberty of indifference become A liberty of impotence at length.