Volume 2 / Part 2 — ON A BOOK CALLED UNITARIAN THEOLOGY[321]

In this choice work, with wisdom penned, we find The noblest system to reform mankind, Bold truths confirmed, that bigots have denied, By most perverted, and which some deride. Here, truths divine in easy language flow, Truths long concealed, that now all climes shall know Here, like the blaze of our material sun, Enlightened Reason proves, that God is One— As that, concentered in itself, a sphere, Illumes all Nature with its radiance here, Bids towards itself all trees and plants aspire, Awakes the winds, impels the seeds of fire, And still subservient to the Almighty plan, Warms into life the changeful race of man; So—like that sun—in heaven's bright realms we trace One Power of Love, that fills unbounded space, Existing always by no borrowed aid, Before all worlds—eternal, and not made— To That indebted, stars and comets burn, Owe their swift movements, and to That return! Prime source of wisdom, all-contriving mind, First spring of Reason, that this globe designed; Parent of order, whose unwearied hand Upholds the fabric that his wisdom planned, And, its due course assigned to every sphere, Revolves the seasons, and sustains the year!— Pure light of Truth! where'er thy splendours shine, Thou art the image of the power divine; Nought else, in life, that full resemblance bears, No sun, that lights us through our circling years, No stars, that through yon' charming azure stray, No moon, that glads us with her evening ray, No seas, that o'er their gloomy caverns flow, No forms beyond us, and no shapes below! Then slight—ah slight not, this instructive page, For the mean follies of a dreaming age: Here to the truth, by Reason's aid aspire, Nor some dull preacher of romance admire; See One, Sole God, in these convincing lines, Beneath whose view perpetual day-light shines; At whose command all worlds their circuits run, And night, retiring, dies before the sun! Here, Man no more disgraced by Time appears, Lost in dull slumbers through ten thousand years; Plunged in that gulph, whose dark unfathomed wave Men of all ages to perdition gave; An empty dream, or still more empty shade, The substance vanished, and the form decayed:— Here Reason proves, that when this life decays, Instant, new life in the warm bosom plays, As that expiring, still its course repairs Through endless ages, and unceasing years. Where parted souls with kindred spirits meet, Wrapt to the bloom of beauty all complete; In that celestial, vast, unclouded sphere, Nought there exists but has its image here! All there is Mind!—That Intellectual Flame, From whose vast stores all human genius came, In which all Nature forms on Reason's plan— Flows to this abject world, and beams on Man!

Six sheets compos'd, struck off, and dry The work may please the world (thought I)— If some impell'd by spleen or spite, Refuse to read, then let them write: I too, with them, shall have my turn, And give advice—to tear or burn. Now from the binder's, hurried home, In neat array my leaves are come: Alas, alas! is this my all? The volume is so light and small, That, aim to save it as I can, 'Twill fly before Myrtilla's fan. Why did I no precautions use? To curb these frolics of the Muse? Ah! why did I invoke the nine To aid these humble toils of mine— That now forebode through every page The witling's sneer, the critic's rage. Did I, for this, so often rise Before the sun illum'd the skies, And near my Hudson's mountain stream Invoke the Muses' morning dream, And scorn the winds that blew so cool! I did—and I was more the fool. Yet slender tho' the book, and small, And harmless, take it all in all, I see a monstrous wight appear, A quill suspended from his ear; Its fate depends on his decree, And what he says must sacred be! A brute of such terrific mien At wild Sanduski ne'er was seen, And in the dark Kentuckey groves No beast, like this, for plunder roves, Nor dwells in Britain's lowering clime A reptile, so severe on rhyme. The monster comes, severe and slow, His eyes with arrowy lightnings glow, Takes up the book, surveys it o'er, Exclaims, "damn'd stuff!"—but says no more: The book is damn'd by his decree, And what he says must gospel be! But was there nothing to his taste?— Was all my work a barren waste— Was not one bright idea sown, And not one image of my own?— Its doom was just, if this be true: But Zoilus shall be sweated too. Give me a cane of mighty length, A staff proportion'd to my strength, Like that, by whose destructive aid The man of Gath his conquests made; Like that, which once on Etna's shore The shepherd of the mountain bore: For wit traduc'd at such a rate To other worlds I'll send him, straight, Where all the past shall nothing seem, Or just be imag'd, like a dream; Where new vexations are design'd, No dull quietus for the mind! Arm'd with a staff of such a size Who would not smite this man of lies: Here, scribbler, help me! seize that pen With which he blasts all rhyming men: His goose-quill must not with him go To persecute the bards below.— How vast a change an hour may bring! How abject lies this snarling thing! No longer wit to him shall bow, To him the world is nothing now; And all he writ, and all he read Is, with himself, in silence laid! Dead tho' he be—(not sent to rest) No keen remorse torments my breast: Yet, something in me seems to tell I might have let him live, as well;— 'Twas his to snarl, and growl, and grin, And life had, else, a burthen been.

Some bold bully Dawson, expert in abusing, Having passed all his life in the practice of bruising; At last, when he thinks to reform and repent, And wishes his days had been soberly spent, Though a course of contrition in earnest begins, He scarcely can bear to be told of his sins. So the British, worn out with their wars in the west (Where burning and murder their prowess confessed) When, at last, they agreed 'twas in vain to contend (For the days of their thieving were come to an end) They hired some historians to scribble and flatter, And foolishly thought they could hush up the matter. But Ramsay[324] arose, and with Truth on his side, Has told to the world what they laboured to hide; With his pen of dissection, and pointed with steel, If they ne'er before felt he has taught them to feel, Themselves and their projects has truly defined, And dragged them to blush at the bar of mankind. As the author, his friends, and the world might expect, They find that the work has a damning effect— In reply to his Facts they abuse him and rail, And prompted by malice, prohibit the sale. But, we trust, their chastisement is only begun; Thirteen are the States—and he writes but of one; Ere the twelve that are silent their story have told, The king will run mad, and the book will be sold.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when their lights fade away. Begin, ye tormentors: your threats are in vain For the son of Alknomock can never complain. Remember the woods, where in ambush he lay, And the scalps which he bore from your nation away! Why do ye delay?—'till I shrink from my pain? Know the son of Alknomock can never complain. Remember the arrows he shot from his bow Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low The flame rises high, you exult in my pain? Know the son of Alknomock will never complain. I go to the land where my father is gone: His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son Death comes like a friend, he relieves me from pain And thy son, O Alknomock, has scorned to complain.

These Indian isles, so green and gay In summer seas by nature placed— Art hardly told us where they lay, 'Till tyranny their charms defaced: Ambition here her efforts made, And avarice rifled every shade. Their genius wept, his sons to see By foreign arms untimely fall, And some to distant climates flee, Where later ruin met them all: He saw his sylvan offspring bleed, That envious natures might succeed. The Chief, who first o'er untried waves To these fair islands found his way, Departing, left a race of slaves, Cortez, your mandate to obey, And these again, if fame says true, To extirpate the vulgar crew. No more to Indian coasts confined, The Patron, thus, indulged his grief; And to regret his heart resigned, To see some proud European chief, Pursue the harmless Indian race, Torn by his dogs in every chace.[327] Ah, what a change! the ambient deep No longer hears the lover's sigh; But wretches meet, to wail and weep The loss of their dear liberty: Unfeeling hearts possess these isles, Man frowns—and only nature smiles. Proud of the vast extended shores The haughty Spaniard calls his own, His selfish heart restrains his stores, To other climes but scarcely known:[328] His Cuba lies a wilderness, Where slavery digs what slaves possess. Jamaica's sweet, romantic vales In vain with golden harvests teem; Her endless spring, her fragrant gales More than Elysian magic seem:[329] Yet what the soil profusely gave Is there denied the toiling slave. Fantastic joy and fond belief Through life support the galling chain; Hope's airy prospects banish griefs, And bring his native lands again: His native groves a heaven display, The funeral is the jocund day. For man oppressed and made so base, In vain from Jove fair virtue fell; Distress be-glooms the toiling race, They have no motive to excel: In death alone their miseries end, The tyrant's dread—is their best friend. How great their praise let truth declare, Who touched with honour's sacred flame, Bade freedom to some coasts repair To urge the slave's neglected claim; And scorning interest's swinish plan, Gave to mankind the rights of man. Ascending there, may freedom's sun In all his force serenely clear, A long, unclouded circuit run, Till little tyrants disappear; And a new race, not bought or sold, Rise from the ashes of the old.

In life's unsettled, odd career What changes every day appear To please or plague the eye: A goodly brotherhood of priests Are here transformed to swearing beasts Who heaven and hell defy. Here Bonner, bruised with many a knock, Has changed his surplice for a frock; Old Erskine swabs the decks, And Watts, who once such pleasure took In writing Hymns—here, turned a cook, Sinners no longer vex. Here Burnet, Tillotson, and Blair, With Jemmy Hervey, curse and swear, Here Cudworth mixes grog; Pearson the crew to dinner hails, A graceless Sherlock trims the sails, And Bunyan heaves the log.

"Bermuda, walled with rocks, who does not know, That happy island, where huge lemons grow," &c. Waller's Battle of the Summer Islands.

These islands fair with many a grove are crowned, With cedars tall, gay hills, and verdant vales, But dangerous rocks on every side is found, Fatal to him who unsuspecting sails. The gay Palmetto shades the adjacent wave: Blue, ocean water near the lime-tree breaks!— I leave the scene!—this stormy quarter leave, And rove awhile by Harrington's sweet lake. In every vale fair woodland nymphs are seen In bloom of youth, to mourn some absent love, Who, wandering far on Neptune's rude domain, Heaves the fond sigh at every new remove. From hill to hill I see Amanda stray, Searching, with anxious view, the encircling main, To espy the sail, so long, so far away, Rise from the waves, and bless her sight again. Now, on some rock, with loose, dishevelled hair, Near dashing waves, the sorrowing beauty stands, Hoping that each approaching barque may bear Homeward the wandering youth from foreign lands. Oh! may no gales such faithful loves destroy, No hidden rock to Hymen fatal prove: And thou, fond swain, thy nicest art employ Once more on these sweet isles to meet your love. When verging to the height of thirty-two, And east or west you guide the dashy prow; Then fear by night the dangers of this shore, Nature's wild garden, placed in sixty-four.[A] Here many a merchant his lost freight bemoans, And many a gallant ship has laid her bones.

Lamp of the pilot's hope! the wanderer's dream, Far glimmering o'er the wave, we saw thy beam: Forced from your aid by cold December's gale As near your isle we reefed the wearied sail: From bar to bar, from cape to cape I roam, From you still absent, still too far from home.— What shall repay me for these nights of pain, And weeks of absence on this restless main, Where every dream recalls that charming shade, Where once, Amanda, once with you I strayed, And fondly talked, and counted every tree, And minutes, ages, when removed from thee. What sad mistake this wandering fancy drew To quit my natives shores, the woods, and You, When safely anchored on that winding stream, Where you were all my care, and all my theme: There, pensive, loitering, still from day to day, The pilot wondered at such strange delay, Musing, beheld the northern winds prevail, Nor once surmised that Love detained the sail. Blest be the man, who, fear beneath him cast, From his firm decks first reared the tapering mast; And catching life and motion from the breeze, Stretched his broad canvas o'er a waste of seas; And taught some swain, whom absence doomed to mourn His distant fair one—taught a quick return: He, homeward borne by favouring gales, might find Remembrance welcome to his anxious mind, And grateful vows, and generous thanks might pay To Him, who filled the sail, and smoothed the way. To me, indeed! the heavens less favouring prove: Each day, returning, finds a new remove— Sorrowing, I spread the sail, while slowly creeps The weary vessel o'er a length of deeps; Her northern course no favouring breeze befriends, Hail, storm, and lightning, on her path attends: Here, wintry suns their shrouded light restrain, Stars dimly glow, and boding birds complain; Here, boisterous gales the rapid Gulph controul, Tremendous breakers near our Argo roll; Here cloudy, sullen Hatteras, restless, raves Scorns all repose, and swells his weight of waves: Here, drowned so late, sad cause of many a tear, Amyntor floats upon his watery bier; By bursting seas to horrid distance tossed, Thou, Palinurus, in these depths wert lost, When, torn by waves, and conquered by the blast, Art strove in vain, and ruin seized each mast. Now, while the winds their wonted aid deny, For other ports, from day to day, we try Strive, all we can, to gain the unwilling shore, Dream still of you—the faithful chart explore; See other groves, in happier climates placed Untouched their bloom, and not one flower defaced. Did Nature, there, a heaven of pleasure shew, Could they be welcome, if not shared with you?— Lost are my toils—my longing hopes are vain: Yet, 'midst these ills, permit me to complain, And half regret, that, finding fortune fail, I left your cottage—to direct the sail: Unmoved, amidst this elemental fray, Let me, once more, the muses' art essay, Once more—amidst these scenes of Nature's strife, Catch at her forms and mould them into life; By Fancy's aid, to unseen coasts repair, And fondly dwell on absent beauty there.

While lost so long to his Arcadian shade, Careless of fortune and of fame he stray'd, Philander to a barbarous region came And found a partner in a colder shade, Fair as Amanda; and perhaps might claim With her the impassion'd soul, and friendship's holy flame; For sprightly loves upon her bosom play'd, And youth was in her blush, and every shepherd said She was a modest and accomplish'd dame. What have I done, (the wandering shepherd cry'd) Thus to be banish'd from a face so fair, (For now the frosts had spoil'd the daisies' pride, And he once more for roving did prepare) Ah, what have I to do with swelling seas Who once could pipe upon the hollow reed?— I take no joy in such rude scenes as these, Nor look with pleasure on the vagrant weed That gulphy streams from rugged caverns bore, Which floats thro' every clime, and never finds a shore! But other fields and other flowers were mine, 'Till wild disorder drove me from the plain. And the black dogs of war were seen to join, Howl o'er the soil, and dispossess the swain: Why must I leave these climes of frost and snow?— Were it not better in these glooms to stay, And, while on high the autumnal tempests blow, Let others o'er the wild seas take their way, And I with my Livinia's tresses play?— Ah, no, no, no! the imperious wave demands That I must leave these shores, and lose these lands And southward to the high equator stray: But Fancy now has lost her vernal hue; See Nature in her wintry garb array'd— And where is that fine dream which once she drew While yet by Cambria's stream she fondly play'd! Lavinia heard his long complaint, and said, Wouldst thou, for me, detain the expecting sail—? Go, wanderer, go—the trees have lost their shade, And my gay flowers are blasted by the gale, And the bright stream is chill'd that wandered thro' the vale: Ah, why, Philander, do you sigh, so sad! Why all this change in such a jovial lad? Smooth seas shall be your guard, and, free from harms, Restore you, safely, to Lavinia's arms! Or should the eastern tempest rend your sail, Trust me, dear shepherd, should the seas prevail, And you be laid in Neptune's cradle low, The winds will bring me back the woeful tale When I must to the long shore weeping go, And while I see the ruffian surge aspire, Some consolation will it be to know No pain or anguish can afflict the head The limbs or stomach, when the heart is dead. Thus long discoursing, on the bank they stood, The heavy burthen'd barque at anchor lay, While the broad topsails, from the yards unfurl'd, Shook in the wind, and summon'd him away; Brisk blew the gales, and curl'd the yielding flood, Nor had he one excuse to urge his stay— Be chang'd (he said) ye winds that blow so fair; Why do not tempests harrow up the deep, And all but the moist south in quiet sleep! To the bleak shore the parting lovers came, And while Philander did his sighs renew, So near the deep they bade their last farewell That the rough surge, to quench the mutual flame Burst in and broke the embrace, and o'er Lavinia flew; While a dark cloud hung lowering o'er the main, From whence the attendants many an omen drew, And said Philander would not come again! Now to their various heights the sails ascend, And southward from the land their course they bore. Lavinia mourn'd the lover and the friend, And stood awhile upon the sandy shore, 'Till interposing seas the hull conceal'd, And distant sails could only greet her view, Like a faint cloud that brush'd the watery field, And swell'd by whistling winds, impetuous, flew: Then to a neighbouring hill the nymph withdrew, And the dear object from that height survey'd, 'Till all was lost and mingled with the main, And night descended, with her gloomy shade, And kindled in the heavens her starry train. Safe to the south the ocean-wading keel In one short month its rapid course achiev'd, And the cold star, that marks the Arctic pole, Was in the bosom of the deep receiv'd: And now the weary barque at anchor rode Where Oronoko pours his sultry wave, Moist Surinam, by torrents overflow'd, And Amazonia vends the fainting slave;— Philander, there, not fated to return, Perceiv'd destruction in his bosom burn, And the warm flood of life too fiercely, glow: The vertic sun a deadly fever gave, And the moist soil bestow'd his bones a grave, Deep in the waste, where oceans overflow, And Oronoko's streams the forests lave. Oft' to the winding shore Lavinia came Where fond Philander bade his last adieu, (And that steep hill which gave her the last view) Till seven long years had round their orbits ran, Yet no Philander came, or none she knew; Alas (she cry'd) for every nymph but me Each sea-bleach'd sail some welcome wanderer brings, And all but I get tidings of their friends; Sad Mariamne drowns herself in woe If one poor month Amyntor quits her arms, And says, "from Ashley's stream he comes too slow,"— And bodes the heavy storm, and midnight harms: What would she say, if doom'd to wait, like me, And mourn long years, and no Philander see!

No more these groves a glad remembrance claim Where grief consumes a half deluded dame, Whom to these isles a modern Theseus bore, And basely left, frail virtue to deplore;— In foreign climes detained from all she loved, By friends neglected, long by Fortune proved, While sad and solemn passed the unwelcome day What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay? Deceived in all; for meanness could deceive, Expecting still, and still condemned to grieve, She scarcely saw—to different hearts allied That her dear Florio ne'er pursued a bride! Are griefs, like thine, to Florio's bosom known?— Must these, alas! be ceaseless in your own? Life is a dream!—its varying shades I see; But this cold wanderer hardly dreams of thee— The bloom of health, which bade all hearts adore, To your pale cheek what physic shall restore? Vain are those drugs that art and love prepares, No art redeems the waste of sighs and tears!

Smit by the glance of your bright eyes When I, Amanda, fondly gaze, Strange feelings in my bosom rise And passion all my reason sways: Worlds I would banish from my view, And quit the gods—to talk with you. The smile that decks your fading cheek, To me a heavy heart declares; When you are silent I would speak But cowardice alarms my fears: All must be sense that you do prize, All that I say—be grave and wise. When wandering in the evening shade I shared her pain, and calmed her grief, A thousand tender things I said, But all I said gave no relief: When from her hair I dried the dew, She sighed, and said—I am not for you! When drooping, dull, and almost dead With fevers brought from sultry climes, She would not wrap my fainting head; But recommended me some rhymes On patience and on fortitude, And other things—less understood. When, aiming to engage her heart With verses from the muses' stock; She sighed, regardless of the art, And counted seconds by the clock; "And thus, (she said) will verse decay, "And thus the muse will pass away!" When languishing upon her bed In willow shades, remote from towns, We came; and while Priscilla read Of chrystal skies and golden crowns: She bade us at a distance stand, And leaned her head upon her hand. So, drooping hangs the fading rose, When summer sends the beating shower: So, to the grave Amanda goes, Her whole duration—but an hour! Who shall controul the sad decree, Or what, fair girl, recover thee? Such virtue in that spirit dwells— Such fortitude amidst such pain!— And, now, with pride my bosom swells, To think I have not lived in vain. For, slighting all the sages knew, I learn philosophy from you.

With life enamoured, but in death resigned, To seats congenial flew the unspotted mind: Attending spirits hailed her to that shore Where this world's winter chills the soul no more. Learn hence, to live resigned;—and when you die No fears will seize you, when that hour is nigh. Transferred to heaven, Amanda has no share In the dull business of this world of care. Her blaze of beauty, even in death admired, A moment kindled, but as soon expired. Sweet as the favourite offspring of the May Serenely mild, not criminally gay: Adorned with all that nature could impart To please the fancy and to gain the heart; Heaven ne'er above more innocence possessed, Nor earth the form of a diviner guest: A mind all virtue!—flames descended here From some bright seraph of some nobler sphere; Yet, not her virtues, opening into bloom, Nor all her sweetness saved her from the tomb, From prospects darkened, and the purpose crossed, Misfortune's winter,—and a lover lost; Nor such resemblance to the forms above, The heart of goodness, and the soul of love! Ye thoughtless fair!—her early death bemoan, Sense, virtue, beauty, to oblivion gone.[337]

Not from those dismal dreary coasts I come Where wizzard Faustus chews his brimstone rolls, Nor have I been to wrangle with the men Of that sad country, where, for want of rum, Dead putrid water from the stagnant fen Is drank, unmingled, by departed souls: Nor from that dog-house do I bring you news, Where Macedonian Philip[A] mends old shoes, But from that dreadful place arrived, Where men in debt at cribbage play, And I most cunningly contrived To fatten on two groats a day— Full on my back now turned the key, The 'squire himself is not so free. When to these rugged walls, a fathom thick, I came, directed by the sheriff's stick, Alas, said I, what can they mean to do! I am not conscious of one roguish trick! I am no thief—I took no Christian's life, Nor have I meddled with the parson's wife, (Which would have been a dreadful thing you know) Then, by these gloomy walls, this iron gate Appointed by the wisdom of your state To shut in little rogues, and keep out great; Tell me, ye pretty lads, that deal in law, Ye men of mighty wigs, ye judges, say— Say! by the jailor's speckled face That never beamed one blush of grace; How long must I In prison lie For just nine guineas—that I cannot pay! Return, ye happy times, when all were free, No jails on land, no nets at sea; When mountain beasts unfettered ran, And man refused to shut up man, As men of modern days have shut up me!— This is the dreary dark abode Of poverty and solitude; Such was the gloomy cell where Bunyan lay While his dear pilgrim helped the time away— Such was the place where Wakefield's vicar drew Grave morals from the imprisoned crew, And found both time to preach and pray. In bed of straw and broken chair What consolation could be found! No gay companions ventured there To push the ruddy liquor round! From jug of stone I drank, alone, A beverage, neither clear nor strong No table laid, No village maid Came there to cheer me with her song; My days were dull, my nights were long! My evening dreams, My morning schemes Were how to break that cruel chain, And, Jenny, be with you again.

"Great scholars have in Lucian read, When Philip, king of Greece, was dead His soul and body did divide. And each part took, a different side; One rose a star, the other fell Below—and mended shoes in hell."—Freneau's note.

Without your showers, I breed no flowers, Each field a barren waste appears; If you don't weep, my blossoms sleep, They take such pleasures in your tears. As your decay made room for May, So I must part with all that's mine: My balmy breeze, my blooming trees To torrid suns their sweets resign! O'er April dead, my shades I spread: To her I owe my dress so gay— Of daughters three, it falls on me To close our triumphs on one day: Thus, to repose, all Nature goes; Month after month must find its doom: Time on the wing, May ends the Spring, And Summer dances on her tomb!

Your leaves bound up compact and fair, In neat array at length prepare, To pass their hour on learning's stage,[341] To meet the surly critic's rage; The statesman's slight, the smatterer's[342] sneer— Were these, indeed, your only[343] fear, You might be tranquil and resigned: What most should touch your fluttering mind;[344] Is that, few critics[345] will be found To sift[346] your works, and deal the wound. Thus, when one fleeting year is past On some bye-shelf your book is cast—[347] Another comes, with something new,[348] And drives you fairly out of view: With some to praise, but more to blame, The mind[349] returns to—whence it came; And some alive, who scarce could read[350] Will publish satires on the dead. Thrice happy Dryden[A], who could meet Some rival bard in every street! When all were bent on writing well It was some credit to excel:—[351]

Thrice happy Dryden, who could find A Milbourne for his sport designed— And Pope, who saw the harmless rage Of Dennis bursting o'er his page Might justly spurn the critic's aim, Who only helped to swell his fame. On these bleak climes by Fortune thrown, Where rigid Reason reigns alone, Where lovely Fancy has no sway, Nor magic forms about us[352] play— Nor nature takes her summer hue Tell me, what has the muse to do?— An age employed in edging steel Can no poetic raptures feel; No solitude's attracting power,[353] No leisure of the noon day hour, No shaded stream, no quiet grove Can this fantastic century move; The muse of love in no request— Go—try your fortune[354] with the rest, One of the nine you should engage,[355] To meet the follies of the age:— On one, we fear, your choice must fall— The least engaging of them all—[356] Her visage stern—an angry style— A clouded brow—malicious smile— A mind on murdered victims placed— She, only she, can please the taste!

Dire Goddess of the haggard brow, Misfortune! at that shrine I bow Where forms uncouth pourtray thee still, A leaky ship, a doctor's bill: A poet damn'd, a beggar's prayer, The critic's growl, the pedant's sneer, The urgent dun, the law severe, A smoky house, rejected love, And friends that all but friendly prove. Foe to the pride of scheming man Whose frown controuls the wisest plan, To your decree we still submit Our views of gain, our works of wit. Untaught by you the feeble mind A dull repose, indeed, might find: But life, unvext by such controul, Can breed no vigour in the soul. The calm that smooths the summer seas May suit the man of sloth and ease: But skies that fret and storms that rave Are the best schools to make us brave. On Heckla's heights who hopes to see The blooming grove, the orange tree Awhile on hope may fondly lean 'Till sad experience blots the scene. If Nature acts on Reason's plan, And Reason be the guide of man: Why should he paint fine prospects there, Then sigh, to find them disappear? For ruin'd states or trade perplext 'Tis almost folly to be vext: The world at last will have its way And we its torrent must obey. On other shores a happier guest The mind must fix her haven of rest, Where better men and better climes Shall soothe the cares of future times.

The Sailor, toss'd on stormy seas, Implores his patron-god for ease When Luna hides her paler blaze, And stars, obscurely, dart their rays: For ease the Yankee, fierce in war, His stores of vengeance points afar: For ease, the toiling Dutchman sighs, Which gold, nor gems, nor purple buys! No treasur'd hoards, from India trade, No doctor's, or the lawyer's aid Can ease the tumults of the mind, Or cares to gilded roofs assign'd. The end of life he, best, completes Whose board is spread with frugal treats, Whose sleep no fears, no thirst of gain, Beneath his homely shed, restrain. Why, then, with wasting cares engage, Weak reptiles of so frail an age— Why, thus, to far-off climates run, And lands beneath another sun? For, though to China's coasts we roam, Ourselves we ne'er can leave at home: Care, swift as deer—as tempests strong, Ascends the prow, and sails along. The mind that keeps an even state, And all the future leaves to fate, In every ill shall pleasure share, As every pleasure has it's care. Fate early seal'd Montgomery's doom, In youth brave Laurens found a tomb; While Arnold spends in peace and pride The years, that heaven to them denied. A host of votes are at your call; A seat, perhaps, in Congress-Hall;[359] And vestments, soak'd in Stygian dye, Where'er you go, alarm the eye: On me, a poor and small domain, With something of a poet's vein The muse bestow'd—and share of pride To spurn a scoundrel from my side.

Tormented with landlords and pester'd with care, This life, I protest, is a tedious affair; And, since I have got a few dollars to spare, I'll e'en take a jaunt, for the sake of fresh air. Since the day I return'd to this king-hating shore Where George and his cronies are masters no more, And others are plac'd at the helm of affairs, Relieving the weight of his majesty's cares; For many long weeks, it has still been my doom To sit like a mopus, confin'd to my loom,[B] Whose damnable clatter so addles my brain, That, say what they will, I am forc'd to complain. Our citizens think, when they sit themselves down In the gardens that grow in the skirts of the town, They think they have got in some rural retreat, Where the nymphs of the groves, and the singing birds meet When only a fence shuts them out from the street; With the smoke of the city be-clouding their eyes They sit in their boxes, and look very wise, Take a sip of bad punch, or a glass of sour wine; Conceiting their pleasures are equal to mine, Who rove where I will, and wherever I roam, In spite of new faces, am always at home. Poor Richard, the reel-man, had nothing to say; He knew very well I would have my own way;— When I said, "My dear Richard, I'm sick of the town, "And Dutchmen that worry me, upstairs and down, "A book of bad debts, and a score of bad smells, "The yelping of dogs, and the chiming of bells; "I am sick of the house, and the sight of small beer, "And the loom may be going, tho' I am not here; "I therefore shall leave you, and that, to be plain, "'Till I feel in a humour to see you again."— Poor Richard said nothing to all that I spoke, But kindled his pipe, and redoubled his smoke. Yet it would have been nothing but friendship in him To have said,—"Robert Slender, 'tis only a whim:— A trip to the Schuylkill, that nothing would cost, Might answer your ends, and no time would be lost; But if you are thinking to make a long stay, Consider, good Robert, what people will say: His rent running on, and his loom standing still— The man will be ruin'd!—he must, if he will—! If tradesmen will always be flaunting about, They may live to repent it—before the year's out!"

As I never could relish to travel alone, I look'd round about, but could hit upon none Whom Satan was tempting to leave their own houses And ramble to York with their daughters and spouses; At last, by repeating my trouble and care, And preaching a month on the sweets of fresh air, And the curse and the plague of remaining in town, Where the heat was sufficient to melt a man down, I got a few friends to consent to the trip; And the first I shall mention was honest Will. Snip, Philadelphia the famous had own'd to his birth, The gravest of towns on the face of the earth; Where saints of all orders their freedom may claim, And poets, and painters, and girls of the game: To him all its streets and its alleys were known, But his travels had never exceeded the town:— A salesman by trade (and a dabster was he To make a silk knee-band set snug to the knee) With his wife (and he says I may mention her name) Susanna Snipinda—so charming a dame, The sun had with pleasure look'd down on her head, So freckled was she, and her tresses so red. To wait on the will of so handsome a lady A youngster was order'd to hold himself ready, A sly looking lad that was 'prentice to Snip, And long had been learning to cabbage and clip;— When Snip was in sight, he was mild as a lamb; When absent, old Satan could hardly rule Sam.

The next I describe is bold captain O'Keef, A killer of men, and a lover of beef: With the heroes of old he had put in his claim, And catch'd at their mantles, and rose into fame: To the sound of a fife and the tune of no song With his Andra Ferrara[C] he paddled along: From his manners so rough, and his dealing in ruin, He was known thro' the town by the name of Sir Bruin; He was, among women, a man of great parts, A captain of foot, and a master of arts: He had, a sweet creature put under his care, (Whose style of address was, my dear, and my dear) A Milliner's girl, with a bundle of lace, Whom Cynthia[D] he call'd, for the sake of her face, At a ball or a frolic how glib his tongue ran, He was, I may say, an unparallell'd man, Very apt to harangue on the hosts he has slain Of people—perhaps that may meet him again: Yet so kind to the sex of the feminine make, By his words, he would venture to die for their sake, Whence some have suspected, that some he ador'd Have more than made up for the wastes of his sword.

The third in succession was Monsieur Touppee, A barber from Paris, of royal degree, (For oft when he takes up his razor, to strap it, He tells his descent from the house of Hugh Capet[E]) Tho' soft in the head, his discourses were long, Now counting his honours, and now his l'argent. This barber, tho' meaning for pleasure to stray, Yet had some pomatum to sell by the way, Perfumes, and fine powders, and essence of myrrh, A bundle of brooms, and a firkin of beer:— His merits are great (he would have us suppose) For Louis (it seems) he has had by the nose, Has bid him, when drooping, to hold up his chin, And handled a tongs—at the head of the Queen.

A singer of ballads was next in our train, Who long had been dealing in ballads in vain; He sometimes would sing in a musical tone, And sometimes would scribble a song of his own: Yet never was seen with his brethren to mix— And laugh'd at your poets in coaches and six; Who sing, like the birds, when the weather is fine; Whose verses the ladies pronounce "so divine;" Who ride with Augustus, wherever he goes, And, meeting old Homer, would turn up the nose— As to those, like himself, that were held to the ground, He knew it was folly to feed them with sound— He knew it was nonsense to crown them with bays, And was too much their friend to insult them with praise. For a dozen long years he had liv'd by the mob: On the word of a weaver, I pitied poor Bob![361] He had sung for the great and had rhym'd for the small, But scarcely a shilling had got by them all— So bad was his luck, and so poor was the trade, And the Muses, he thought, were so sneakingly paid, That if times didn't alter, and that very soon, He said and he swore, he must sing his last tune. Some devil had put it, somehow, in his head If he took a short journey his fortune was made: Some devil had told him (but whether in dreams Or waking, I know not) some devil, it seems, Had made him believe that the nymphs and the swains Were fairly at war with their old fashion'd strains, That the tunes which the kirk or the curates had made (And which always had ruin'd the balladman's trade) Were wholly disus'd, and that now was the time For singers of catches and dealers in rhyme To step from their stalls, where they long were disgrac'd, Reform the old music, and fix a new taste.

A mate of a schooner, bespatter'd with tar, Who had lately come in from Savanna-la-Mar,[F] For, the sake of an airing had stept from his deck And ventur'd a jaunt, at the risque of his neck, His name and his nation no soul could mistake.— He was Bryan O'Bluster, and much of a rake; From morning till night he was still on the move, Was always in taverns, or always in love: His life was sustain'd by the virtues of grog, And many long miles he had sail'd by the log.— Of battles and storms he had known a full share, And his face, it was plain, was the worse for the wear; To see a mean fellow, lord how it would fret him; And he hated a puppy, wherever he met him— He was ready to bleed for the good of each State, But since they had left the poor seamen to fate; Themselves in the dumps, and their fair ones in tears, And many brave fellows detain'd in Algiers!— Had spirit sufficient to make themselves free, But not to resent their affronts on the sea! As this was the case—he must bid us good night, And sail with a flag that would do itself right. At cursing and swearing he play'd a good hand, But never was easy a minute on land; If the wind was a-head, or his Kitty untrue, Why, patience was all the relief that he knew:— In the midst of misfortune he still was serene, And Kitty, he said, was a feeble machine: His heart was too hard for a lady to sigh, Yet I guess'd him a rogue by the leer in his eye: "The world (he would say) is a whimsical dance— And reason had taught him to leave it to chance. In chace of dame Fortune his prime he had pass'd, And now was beginning to fail very fast, But thought it was folly his heart to perplex, As Fortune was just like the rest of her sex;— Designing, and fickle, and taken with show, Now fond of a monkey, and now of a beau:— Yet, still, as the goddess was made up of whim, He meant to pursue 'till she smil'd upon him." And tho' he was always deceiv'd in the chace, He smooth'd up his whiskers, and wore a bold face. On horseback he first had attempted to go, But the horse was no fool, and had give him a throw; He fell in a pond, and with not a dry rag on The horse brought him back to the sign of the waggon, Where three times he call'd for a dram of their best, And three times the virtues of brandy confess'd; Then took some tobacco, and soberly said, "De'il take such a vessel; she's all by the head, Broach'd to on a sudden, and then, d'ye see, Myself and the saddle went over the lee." His head was so full of his ragged command He could scarcely believe he was yet on dry land; He would rise in his sleep; call the watch up at four, Ask the man at the helm how the Eddystone bore; Then, rubbing his eyes, bawl out, "By my soul, "We are bearing right down on the Hatteras shoal; "The devil may trust to such pilots as you: "We are close on the breakers—the breakers—halloo!"

The sixth, and the last, that attended our journey, Was a man of the law, a Rhode-Island attorney, As cunning as Satan to argue or plead, To break an entailment, or get himself fee'd They call'd him Ezekiel—I cannot tell what— Perhaps I forget it—perhaps I do not— He had once been a parson, and studied at Yale,[G] But took to the law, when his preaching grew stale; In his system of thinking, not well understood, I wander'd about, like a man in a wood; From morning 'till night he was nothing but whim, Not a man in the town held opinions, like him: In regard to the vulgar, he argued that Law Was better than preaching, to keep them in awe: That the dread of a gallows had greater effect, And a post or a pillory claim'd more respect From a knave—and would sooner contribute to mend, Than all the grave precepts that ever were penn'd.

Having pitch'd on our party, there rose a dispute On the mode of conveyance—in waggon or boat? For my part, said Snip, I was always afraid Of sailors, and sloops and the shallopman's trade, And the reason thereof I will candidly tell, My grandmother, Mopsy, was drown'd in a well; I therefore intreat you, and fervently pray We may go with the waggons the Burlington way. "Hold, master," the sailor replied in a fret, "The devil's not ready to bait for you yet: Even this way, you know, there is water to pass, And twenty long miles we should sail with an ass;— But, gentlemen all, will you take my advice? Here's Albertson's[H] sloop; she's so new and so nice, Her bottom so sleek, and her rigging so trim, Not Bailey[H] or Hyde[H] can be mentioned with him; In her cabbin and steerage is plenty of room, And how clever she looks with her flying jib-boom, A topsail aloft, that will stand by the wind, And a yard rigg'd athwart, for a squaresail design'd. "Odds fish! I would sooner some little delay Than go, like a booby, the fresh-water way Where your cream-colour'd captains ne'er swear a bad word, And sail without compass or quadrant on board, Catch catfish and sturgeons, but never a whale, Nor balance a mizen, to fight with the gale: But Albertson goes by the route of Cape May, Salt-water, and sees the bold porpusses play: Where the shore of the coast the proud ocean controuls He travels, nor strikes on the Barnegat shoals." "You tar-smelling monster! (Snipinda rejoin'd) Your jargon has almost distracted my mind. If Snip should be drownded, and lost in the sea, You never once think what a loss it would be! I should then be a widow, dejected and sad And where would I find such another sweet lad! And Doctor Sangrado a letter has wrote, And how, in three weeks he will want a new coat."— Snip's heart, at her answer, seem'd ready to break: "Snipinda," said he, "I would live for your sake! If I should be drownded, indeed, it is true, It would be a bad journey for Sam and for you!"— For fear they should hear him, Sam whisper'd, "In troth I would give my new hat that the devil had both." "If Snip should be drown'd," said the valiant O'Keef, "Poor woman! already I guess at her grief— However, for aught that a stranger can see, There are dozens as brisk at the needle as he, And, tho' it were hard that the sea-fish should tear him, I'm fully convinc'd that his brethren can spare him: "But were I to mention the very best way, And the quickest to boot (for they go in a day) I would sleep over night at the sign of the Queen,[I] (Where the wine is so good, and the beds are so clean) Then starting by day-break, and riding in state, Arriving in Bristol—we breakfast at eight, Then push on our way, with a rapid career, With nothing to hinder, and nothing to fear, Till Trenton, and Princeton, and Brunswick are pass'd, And safe on the Hudson they drop us at last." When the captain had finish'd, the Frenchman arose, And smoothing his whiskers, and squaring his toes, With a bend of his back, and a swing of his head Thus expressing his wish, with a flourish, he said: "Wherever pomatums are most in demand That route has my vote, be it water or land: Wherever I travel, through sun-shine or glooms, May fortune direct me to powders and plumes!— So, gentlemen, choose, I beseech you, that road Where ladies prefer to be dress'd in the mode." "Hold, varlet, be still"—said the Yankee attorney, "Are you to decide on the route of our journey? These run-about fellows, I cannot but hate 'em, With their rings, and their ruffles, and rolls of pomatum: But, gentlemen, (if I may venture to speak In the stile I was wont when I dabbled in Greek, When I blew on my trumpet, and call'd up my pack, Who thought I was holy because I was black; Or, if you allow me a moral to draw From some words that were frequent with Doctor Magraw);— "We all have in view to arrive at one town, "Yet each one would find out a way of his own; "What a pity it is that we cannot agree "To march all together to Zion"—said he— But, since I'm convinc'd that it cannot be so, (For his journey resembles our journey below) Like the sects in religion, I heartily pray That each, as he pleases, may have his own way, Let Snip, and the captain, adventure by land, The sailor by sea—he can reef, steer, and hand; Let the Frenchman set out in a gaudy balloon, (He'll either be there, or be dead, very soon,) For my own part, I'm fond of the Burlington boat, But still, if you're willing, I'll put it to vote: The hint was sufficient—he put it to vote, And fate bade us go with the Burlington boat.

The morning was fair, and the wind was at west, The flood coming in, and the ladies were drest; At the sign of the Billet we all were to meet, And Snip was the first that appear'd in the street; He strutted along with a mighty brisk air, While Sam and Snipinda walked slow in the rear. Dress'd, booted, and button'd, and "cutting a shine" The captain came next, with his loaded carbine; Then handed on board the milliner's maid: The barber and ballad-man longer delay'd For one had his ballads to sing and to play, And the other some beards to take off by the way: At last they arriv'd, and the sailor along, (But he was besotted—his dram had been strong—) The lawyer, Ezekiel, was last to appear, With a cane in his hand and a quill at his ear. But, just as we all were prepar'd to embark, The wind came a-head, and the weather look'd dark: So, whilst they were busy in hoisting the sails And trimming close aft' to encounter the gales, Our seaman advis'd them to take in a reef As the vessel was light—but the skipper was deaf: "His boat was his own"—and he knew to a hair The "worth of her freight," and the "sail she could bear." Then a storm coming on, we stow'd away snug, Some link'd with a lady, and some with a jug: Snipinda and Sam were inclining to sleep, And the lawyer harangu'd on the risques of the deep. O'Bluster was busy in looking for squalls, And Cynthia discours'd upon dances and balls, And while the poor ballad-man gave us a song The Frenchman complain'd that his stomach felt wrong. Arriving, at length at the end of this stage, We quitted our cabbin (or rather our cage) To the sign of the Anchor we then were directed, Where captain O'Keef a fine turkey dissected; And Bryan O'Bluster made love to egg-nog, And pester'd the ladies to taste of his grog: Without it (said Bryan) I never can dine, 'Tis better, by far, than your balderdash wine, It braces the nerves and it strengthens the brain, A world—and no grog—is a prison of pain, And Man, the most wretched of all that are found To creep in the dust, or to move on the ground! It is, of all physic, the best I have seen To keep out the cold, and to cut up the spleen— Here, madam—miss Cynthia—'tis good—you'll confess— Now taste—and you'll wish you had been in my mess— With grog I'm as great as a king on his throne; The worst of all countries is—where there is none, New Holland, New Zealand—those islands accurs'd— Here's health to the man that invented it first.

Coop'd up in a waggon, the curtains let down, At three in the morning we drove out of town: A morning more dark I ne'er saw in my life, And the fog you might almost have cut with a knife, It was a fit season for murders and rapes, For drunken adventures and narrow escapes:— So, with something to think of, but little to say, The driver drove on, looking out for the way, 'Till we came to the brow of a horrible hill, Six miles on our road, when the cattle stood still— "Are you sure you have took the right road?"—queried Snip; "I am"—said the driver—and crack'd with his whip. Then away ran the horses, but took the wrong road, And away went the waggon, with all its full load; Down, deep in a valley, roll'd over and over, Fell the flying-machine, with its curtains and cover, Where shatter'd and shiver'd—no glimpse yet of day, A mass of destruction, together we lay! Then howlings were heard, that would frighten a stone, And screeching, and screaming, and many a groan, The bruising of heads, and the breaking of shins, Contrition of heart, and confession of sins. First rose from his ruins tall captain O'Keef, And call'd to Ezekiel, and begg'd for his brief:[J] A writ he demanded, as soon as 'twas day, And ask'd his advice, if a suit would not lay? Then felt for his sword, but chanc'd on a cane, And rush'd at the stageman, to cleave him in twain. As fortune would have it, the stageman had fled, And Snip the whole vengeance receiv'd on his head; The staff had been whirl'd with so deadly a sweep Poor Will in a moment was all in a heap: There was room to surmise that his senses were hurt, For, in spite of our bruises, he made us some sport: His head, he conceited, was made of new cheese; And ask'd, if the sexton would give up his fees?— Then, rolling away on the side of the hill, With his head in a horse-pond, he lay very still: At last he bawl'd out—"I'm sick at my heart! Come hither, companions, and see me depart! Snipinda, Snipinda!—alas, I must leave her— And all, for the sake of this villainous weaver, Who never would give me a moment of rest 'Till I left my dear shop-board, and thus am distrest! But a time will arrive (if I deem not amiss) When Slender, the weaver, will suffer for this— May his breeches, be always too big for his wear, Or so narrow and scant as to torture his rear; May his waistcoat be ever too long or too short, And the skirts of his tunic not both of a sort;— And, when from this sorrowful jaunt you return, Tell Doctor Sangrado 'tis needless to mourn: Ah! tell him I firmly believ'd I was going Where people no longer are wed-ding and wooing, Where white linen stockings will ever be clean, And sky-men are clad in the best of nankeen; Where with old Continental our debts we can pay, And a suit of best broad-cloth will last but a day; Where with pretty brass thimbles the streets are all pav'd, And a remnant—if not a whole piece—shall be sav'd, Where cloth may be cabbag'd—and that without fear— And journeymen work—thirteen months to the year!" Snipinda was mov'd at so dismal a yell, And groping about to find where he fell, Exclaim'd, "I have got a sad bruise on one hip, But matters, I fear, are much worse with poor Snip." "Yes, yes"—answer'd Snip—"I'm preparing to go— Be speedy, Snipinda, my pulse is so low!" Then she went where he lay, and took hold of his head, And whisper'd the captain, "how much he has bled!" (For she thought, as he lay with his nose in the puddle, That the water was blood, that had flow'd from his noddle.) "Ah! where is the doctor, to give him a pill; And where is the Lawyer, to write his last-will? Ezekiel! Ezekiel! attend to his words; If I am his widow, I must have my thirds! But can you"—and here she reclin'd on his breast— "And can you resolve to forsake me distrest, Is it thus you would quit me, my joy and my love, And leave me alone for the shop-boards above: Is it thus you consign me to trouble and woe?— When you are departed, ah! where shall I go? I shall then be a widow—forsaken and sad— And where shall I find such another sweet lad? Who then will afford me a mint-water dram, Gallant me to meeting—and who will flog Sam?" By this time the story was currently spread, And most were convinc'd that the taylor was dead,— "The taylor is dead beyond all relief! The taylor is dead," cry'd captain O'Keef: "To fetch up a fashion, or trump up a whim, Not a knight of the thimble was equal to him!" "The taylor is dead"—(the lawyer exclaim'd) God speed him!—'tis better to die than be maim'd: If life is a race, as the learned pretend, God help him! his racing is soon at an end: His anchor is cast, and his canvas is furl'd; A creature he was, so attach'd to the world, So eager for money—(I say it with grief) He never consider'd the 'fall of the leaf.' He is come (we may say) to the end of his tether Where the maid and her master shall lay down together.— For the place where he's gone may we also prepare, Where the Mind, when admitted, shall rest from her care, And fiddles—the finest that ever were seen, Shall play, for his comfort, a brisk Bonny Jean. "The taylor is dead" (said the company round) "The taylor is dead"—the dark forests resound.— "He is dead!"—blubber'd Sam, with a counterfeit sigh— When the sailor bawl'd out—"By my soul it's a lie! The fellow has only a mind for some fun, His blood is not cold, and his race is not run. His head, it is true, may have had a small shock: I'll bind it—'twill only be strapping a block: Here, hand me a neck-cloth, a napkin, a clout! Now—heave up his noddle, and strap it about! Success to the skull that can bear a good jirk— They only have damag'd his ginger-bread work." The matters turn'd out as he said and he swore, And the taylor threw open his peepers once more.

When the morning appear'd, it is horrid to tell What mischiefs the most of our crew had befel: A bundle lay here, and a budget lay there; The Frenchman was fretting and pulling his hair, The horses were feeding about on the hill, And Snip, with his head on a hassock lay still, The driver beseech'd us the fault to excuse, The night had been dark—and "he lost both his shoes"— Then he rais'd up his waggon, rejoicing to find That, by leaving the top and the curtains behind, We still might proceed—for the body was sound, And the wheels, upon searching, uninjur'd all 'round. But dull and dishearten'd we travell'd along, Our waggon dismantled, our harness all wrong: The lawyer was vext that we went a snail's pace, And Cynthia was sure she had lost half her lace; While Bryan O'Bluster, who Snip had restor'd, Asserted, that Snip was the Jonas on board, And often declar'd, in his moments of glee, "He would give him a souse, if he had him at sea." At length, we arriv'd, with the marks of our fall, And halted to dine at the town of Road-Hall: Honest David has always a dish of the best, But Snipinda declar'd there was nothing well drest— "And Snip (she exclaim'd) I would ask him to eat, But I know that he never could relish roast-meat: I think it were better to get him some Tea, He always was fond of slop dinners, like me, But then he could never endure your Bohea— La! madam, is this the best tea that you keep? By the taste and the smell, you have purchas'd it cheap! No Hyson or Congo to give a sick stranger! Poor man! I've no doubt but his life is in danger! "No doctor like Neptune for people like him, (Quoth O'Bluster)—his illness is merely a whim: If I had him at sea, with the rest of our crew, He should dance to the tune of a bowl of Burgoo!" "From all that appears (said captain O'Keef) I judge he might venture to taste the roast beef, Nay—I think I can guess, from the cast of his eye, He longs to have hold of the gooseberry pye!" "Why captain (she cry'd) would you kill the poor sinner? If he cannot have tea, he shall go without dinner!" At length to the Ferry we safely arrive, Each thanking his genius he still was alive: Poor Cynthia complain'd of abundance of harms, The black on her face and the blue on her arms: Snipinda exclaim'd that she wanted a patch, For Snip, in his ravings, had give her a scratch: The corpse of the captain was merely a wreck, And the sailor complain'd of a kink in his neck, He had a contusion, beside, on his thigh; And the ballad-man talk'd of a bruise on his eye, Just adding, "how much he was vext at the heart That no one regarded the song-singing art: Yet the town was in love with his music (he said) But never consider'd he liv'd by the trade; That affronts and neglect were forever his lot, And the lovers of music respected him—not; He had sung for the nymphs, and had sung for the swains, But they were unwilling to purchase his strains, When he put up his ballads and call'd for his pay, The shepherds slunk off, and the nymphs ran away." So, we said what we could to encourage poor Bob, And pitied his fortune,—to live by the mob: Advis'd him to cobble, cut throats, or dig ditches If he wish'd to advance to perferment and riches; That the time had arriv'd, when a sycophant race Of poets are only promoted to place— He should scorn them alike, if attach'd to a crown, Singing lies to a court, or disguis'd in the gown; That a poet of genius (all history shews) Ne'er wanted a puppy, to bark at his muse: And, though their productions were never once read, Yet Bavius and Mevius must also be fed. Then the skipper came in, with a terrible noise, Exclaiming, "The wherry is ready, my boys: The sails are unfurl'd, and the clock has struck eight; Away to the wharf, for no longer I wait!" Now all were embark'd, and the boat under sail, With a dark cloudy sky and a stiff blowing gale: In plying to windward we delug'd our decks— O'Bluster discours'd of disasters and wrecks— Snip offer'd the skipper five dollars, and more, And a pair of new trowsers, to run us on shore; "And, if I was there (said the faint-hearted swain) No money should tempt me to travel again! I had rather, by far, I had broken both legs, Been rotting in prison, or pelted with eggs! Now comrades and captains, I bid you good night, And you, Mr. Slender, our journey will write; A journey like this will attention attract, Related in metre, and known to be fact."— Snipinda was sorry she ever left home— Ezekiel confess'd it was madness to roam;— Toupee was alarm'd at the break of the seas, And you, Robert Slender, were not at your ease; Yet couldn't help laughing at captain O'Keef, Who shunn'd little Cynthia, and cast up his beef: "And, Bruin (she said) I am sick at my heart, Come hither, I pray you—and see me depart: What wretches e'er travell'd so rugged a route; Alas! I am sorry that e'er we set out!" And Sam, while he own'd what a thief he had been, O'Bluster made love to a bottle of gin— Bob's ballads and poems lay scatter'd and torn Himself in the dumps and his visage forlorn;— Snip lay with his head by the side of a pot, In doubt if his soul was departing or not, Complaining, and spewing, and cursing his luck— Then look'd at Snipinda—and call'd her his duck. At last to relieve us, when thought of the least, The wind came about to the south of southeast, The barque that was buried in billows before Now flew like a gull by the Long-Island shore, And gaining the port where we wish'd to arrive, Was safe in the bason—precisely at five.

Hermit Though many years on these tall cliffs residing I recollect not such a dreadful quarrel Between the seas and water-vexing tempests As now torments my ears, and pains my eyes— Clouds, low suspended, seem to embrace the foam Of yonder angry ocean—bursting thunders, With their pale sheets of lightning, are as busy As though they meant to cleave this mass of nature, Proving at once the world's mortality— But am I safe on this sea-girded island, Or can these shores, thus beaten, bear the shock Of such a bold assault—? When universal ruin shall approach, Will the grand scene be more astonishing When thou, sky-pointing Saba, Shalt tremble on thy base most fearfully!— Night comes!—I'll to my cavern in the mountain, Far from the torrent's roar and bursting billow; That cavern, where I oft have found repose Since on this barren isle, a shipwrecked stranger, I made my sole escape—Ha! what are these! A barque half buried in the spouting surge Comes rushing towards the isle, impelled by winds That scorn all motives of compassion. Hark! now she strikes the iron pointed reef Foundering; the horrid surge that breaks upon her Has sealed their doom, and hope itself forsakes them Man is too weak to combat with the power Of these mad elements, that conquer all, Ending the day light of our misery!— Yes, yes—I'll to my haunt, for scenes like these Pain the shocked soul and damp all resolution;— Or, shall I to the shore, while day remains, And search among the shell-incrusted coral, Lest if by some great chance or miracle Some wretch survives upon the ragged rocks, Who knowing not of human kind residing On this sequestered, unfrequented isle, Tired in contending with the angry billows And beaten by the surge the whole night through For want of such relief, may die ere morning— Perdition! three I see upon the rocks Clinging, to keep off death, while the rude billow Swells o'er their heads, insultingly victorious: Now from the reef upborne I see them struggle, Heaven grant, successfully!—they labour on, Now headlong to the shore, now back they go Despairing to the main!—now, now they land Safe in that calm recess, a narrow bay To them the heaven from impending ruin— So what are you?— First Mariner If thou art an inhabitant of the isle, Lend your kind aid to three half perished wretches Of threescore souls, the only three remaining— And if thou knowest of any sheltered spot Where from these horrid blasts and water spouts We may retire to pass the long dull night: Or if thou knowest of any standing pool Or running stream, or earth-supported spring, O tell us! and, as nothing more remains, Our gratitude must be thy sole reward. Hermit Among the hills, on their declivities Full many a sylvan haunt I have espied Ere now, in wandering when the heaven was bright; But springs or running streams abound not here The skies alone supply the hollowed rock From whence I drain my annual full supply: Yet to my cavern you shall all resort To taste a hermit's hospitality— If you have strength, ascend this winding path And amongst these rugged rocks, still following me, We soon shall reach a safe retreat, removed Alike from noisy seas, and mountain torrents. Second Mariner Lo! here the tall palmettoe, and the cedar, The lime tree, and sweet scented shrubs abundant With mingling branches, form a blest abode; Here, bleating lambs crowd to the evening fold And goats and kids, that wander o'er the hills, Vext by the storm, herd to the social hermit; In neighbouring groves the juicy lemon swells, The golden orange charms the admiring eye, And the rich cocoa yields her milky stream. Hermit Here, strangers, here repose your wearied limbs While some dead boughs I bring from yonder thicket, To wake the friendly blaze.—To drain the dams Of these impatient kids, be next my care: The cocoa's milky flesh, dried pulse and roots Shall be your fare to night; and when to-morrow Dispells the gloom, and this tornado ceases, We'll search along the shores, and find where lie The bodies of your dear and lost companions, That so we may commit them to the dust, And thus obliterate from our remembrance The horrid havock that this storm occasioned. Third Mariner O good old man, how do I honour thee! My future days, my services are your's; For you, will I be earlier than the sun To bring you sticks to light the morning fire; For you, will I attempt these dangerous cliffs And climb on high to pluck the blushing plum; For you will I from yonder rocky height Drain chrystal waters, to delight your taste: But now be kind; I wish to hear you tell What chance or fortune brought you to these shores: Whether alone on these rough craggs you dwell Where wandering mist is gathered into showers, Or whether town or village decks the plain; Or is there sheltered port, where swelling sails Lodge lofty ships, from hurricanes secure, Fenced in by reefs, or locked by neighbouring hills. Hermit No town or village owns this scanty soil, Nor round its coast one safe recess is seen, Where lofty ship, or barque of meaner freight Might rest secure, untroubled by the winds, Which still pursue the restless surge that pours, And spits its venom, on these ragged shores; Nor in these woody wilds, till you were wrecked, Except myself, did Christian man reside, Wandering from Europe to these Indian isles So late discovered on the world's green end.— All lies as Nature formed it, rough throughout, And chance has planted here this garden wild, For such as I, who wandering from the world; Cities, and men, and civilized domains, The farther distant, find the bliss more pure. Third Mariner In such a sad retreat, and all alone!— To hold no converse but with senseless trees, To have no friendship but with wandering goats, And worthless reptiles that infest the ground— Can man be happy in so dull a scene? Hermit To the steep summit of this slighted isle I often climb at early dawn of day, And o'er the vast expanse I throw my view, Not idly thence the busy scene surveying— Vast fleets I sometimes see, each kept at bay, Or joining both in angry conversation, Their object avarice half, and half ambition— What is it all to me? what are they seeking That can give more than a sufficiency?— That object I have here which they pursue, Grasping it, miser-like, in my embraces— The stream distilling from the shaded cliff, And fruits mature from trees by Nature planted, And contemplation, heaven-born contemplation! These are my riches! I am wealthier far Than Spain's proud fleets, that load the groaning ocean— Wait you in yonder cave—I will return— My herd of goats is wandering in the wild, And I must house them, ere the close of day. (Exit) First Mariner Who can this hermit be—what doth he here? In such a dismal cell who would inhabit Thus lonely, who has crowds and cities seen— Is he some savage offspring of the isle, The mountain goat his food, his god the sun; Some wretch produced from mingled heat and moisture. Full brother to the hungry pelican; His friend, some monster of the adjacent wood; His wife, some sorceress, red haired hag from hell; His children, serpents, scorpions, centipedes— Third Mariner It was but now, (he spoke before he thought) he told me, That he is richer than the fleets of Spain That burden the wide bosom of the ocean; And then he seemed so pleased and satisfied, Boasting himself the happiest of mankind. Second Mariner Where should this wealth be hid—his cave shows none: A prayer book and a cross, a string of beads, A bed of moss, a cap, an earthen jug, And some few goat skins, furnish out his cave: But still this humble guise of poverty Vast sums of splendid riches may conceal: The flooring of his den is a loose sand— Searching a fathom deep may shew strange things, While we, so long pursuing, hit on fortune.— Perhaps this hermit is some bloody pirate, Who having plundered friends and foes, alike, Has brought his booty here, to bury it. First Mariner Lo! there he comes, driving his goats before him: He means to fence them from the tempest's rage Under the shelter of those tufted cedars: It does, indeed, appear most possible, That in this cavern rests his plundered wealth: When sleep has locked his senses in repose We'll seize him on his couch, and binding him, Cast him from yonder jutting promontory That hangs a hundred fathoms o'er the deep— Thus, shall his fate prevent discovery. Second Mariner Your project pleases me—it is most wrong That such a savage should enjoy such hoards Of useful wealth, he has not heart to use:— He builds no ships, employs no mariners; But, like a miser, hides the ill-gotten store, And had he died before we wandered hither His gold had perished, and none been the wiser. Third Mariner While you observe his motions, fellow sufferers, Of twisted bark I'll make a sett of thongs Wherewith to bind him at the midnight hour, Lest waking, he should struggle to be free And slip our hands before we gain the summit From whence we mean to plunge his tawny carcase:— There, there he comes—"Now, hermit, now befriend us, "For cruel, merciless hunger gnaws our vitals, "And every mischief that can man dishearten "Is ripe to drive us into desperation!" Hermit Have patience, till from yonder arched grotto I bring my bowls of milk, and seasoned roots, And fruits I plucked before the day was high: Now, friends, enjoy my hospitality: All's at your service, wretched shipwrecked men; And when you've satisfied the rage of hunger Repose on these soft skins; your sea-beat limbs Demand the aid of kind refreshing sleep: I'll to my evening prayers, as I am wont, And early dreams;—for travelling o'er the hills, And pelted by the storm the whole day past, My knees grow feeble, and I wish for rest. (Exit) Second Mariner Yes, yes—first pray, and then repose in peace, Hermit of Saba, ne'er to wake again! Or should you wake, it must be in convulsions, Tossed from the peak of yonder precipice, Transfixt on pointed rocks, most bloodily. Third Mariner Now, now's the time: he sleeps: I hear him snore— This hidden gold has so possessed my brain, That I, at all events, must handle it: Yet should the hermit 'wake while thus engaged, Sad mischief might ensue: his nervous arm (More than a match for our exhausted vigour) Might exercise most horrible revenge! Long practising among these rugged mountains, Pursuing goats, bounding from rock to rock, And cleaving trees to feed his evening fire, His nerves and blood are all activity: And then he is of so robust a fabrick That we should be mere children in his hands, Whirling us from the precipice at pleasure, (Thus turning on ourselves our own designs) Or catching up some fragment of a rock Grind into atoms our pale, quivering limbs; Taking full vengeance on ingratitude. First Mariner Fast bound in chains of sleep, I first assail him; This knotty club shall give the unerring blow; You follow on, and boldly second me! Thus—comrades—thus!—that stroke has crushed his brain! He groans! he dies?—now bear him to the summit Of yon' tall cliff, and having thence dislodged him, Uninterrupted we shall dig his riches, Heirs to the wealth and plenty of his cave. Second Mariner (conscience struck) 'Tis done, 'tis done—the hermit is no more:— Say nothing of this deed, ye hills, ye trees, But let eternal silence brood upon it. O, base, base, base!!—why was I made a man, And not some prowling monster of the forest, The worst vile work of Nature's journeymen! Ye lunar shadows! no resemblance yield From craggy pointed rock, or leafy bush, That may remind me of this murdered hermit. Third Mariner Deep have I fathomed in his cave, but find No glimpse of gold—we surely did mistake him: His treasures were not of that glittering kind; Dryed fruits, and one good book; his goats, his kids, These were, indeed, his riches— Now, hermit, now I feel remorse within me: While here we stay thy shadow will torment us, From every haunted rock, or bush, projecting; And when from hence we go, that too shall follow, Crying—Perdition on these fiends from Europe, Whose bloody malice, or whose thirst for gold, Fresh from the slaughter-house of innocence Unpeoples isles, and lays the world in ruin!

In spite of all the learned have said, I still my old opinion keep; The posture, that we give the dead, Points out the soul's eternal sleep. Not so the ancients of these lands— The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast.[A]

His imaged birds, and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dressed, Bespeak the nature of the soul, Activity, that knows no rest. His bow, for action ready bent, And arrows, with a head of stone, Can only mean that life is spent, And not the old ideas gone. Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, No fraud upon the dead commit— Observe the swelling turf, and say They do not lie, but here they sit. Here still a lofty rock remains, On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted, half, by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race. Here still an aged elm aspires, Beneath whose far-projecting shade (And which the shepherd still admires) The children of the forest played! There oft a restless Indian queen (Pale Shebah, with her braided hair) And many a barbarous form is seen To chide the man that lingers there. By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews; In habit for the chase arrayed, The hunter still the deer pursues, The hunter and the deer, a shade![364] And long shall timorous fancy see The painted chief, and pointed spear, And Reason's self shall bow the knee To shadows and delusions here.

From Susquehanna's farthest springs Where savage tribes pursue their game, (His blanket tied with yellow strings,) A shepherd of the forest came. Not long before, a wandering priest Expressed his wish, with visage sad— "Ah, why (he cried) in Satan's waste, "Ah, why detain so fine a lad? "In white-man's land there stands a town "Where learning may be purchased low— "Exchange his blanket for a gown, "And let the lad to college go."— From long debate the council rose, And viewing Shalum's tricks with joy To Cambridge Hall,[A] o'er wastes of snows, They sent the copper-coloured boy.

One generous chief a bow supplied, This gave a shaft, and that a skin; The feathers, in vermillion dyed, Himself did from a turkey win: Thus dressed so gay, he took his way O'er barren hills, alone, alone! His guide a star, he wandered far, His pillow every night a stone. At last he came, with foot so lame, Where learned men talk heathen Greek, And Hebrew lore is gabbled o'er, To please the Muses,—twice a week. Awhile he writ, awhile he read, Awhile he conned their grammar rules— (An Indian savage so well bred Great credit promised to the schools.) Some thought he would in law excel, Some said in physic he would shine; And one that knew him, passing well, Beheld, in him, a sound Divine. But those of more discerning eye Even then could other prospects show, And saw him lay his Virgil by To wander with his dearer bow. The tedious hours of study spent, The heavy-moulded lecture done, He to the woods a hunting went, Through lonely wastes he walked, he run. No mystic wonders fired his mind; He sought to gain no learned degree, But only sense enough to find The squirrel in the hollow tree. The shady bank, the purling stream, The woody wild his heart possessed, The dewy lawn, his morning dream In fancy's gayest colours dressed. "And why (he cried) did I forsake "My native wood for gloomy walls; "The silver stream, the limpid lake "For musty books and college halls. "A little could my wants supply— "Can wealth and honour give me more; "Or, will the sylvan god deny "The humble treat he gave before? "Let seraphs gain the bright abode, "And heaven's sublimest mansions see— "I only bow to Nature's God— "The land of shades will do for me. "These dreadful secrets of the sky "Alarm my soul with chilling fear— "Do planets in their orbits fly, "And is the earth, indeed, a sphere? "Let planets still their course pursue, "And comets to the centre run— "In Him my faithful friend I view, "The image of my God—the Sun. "Where Nature's ancient forests grow, "And mingled laurel never fades, "My heart is fixed;—and I must go "To die among my native shades." He spoke, and to the western springs, (His gown discharged, his money spent, His blanket tied with yellow strings,) The shepherd of the forest went.[366]

"To yonder boughs that spread so wide, Beneath whose shade soft waters glide, Once more I take the well known way; With feeble step and tottering knee I sigh to reach my white-oak tree, Where rosy health was wont to play. If to the shades, consuming slow, The shadow of myself, I go, When I am gone, wilt thou remain!— From dust you rose, and grew like me; I man became, and you a tree, Both natives of one grassy plain. How much alike; yet not the same!— You could no kind protector claim; Alone you stood, to chance resigned: When winter came, with blustering sky, You feared its blasts—and so did I, And for warm suns in secret pined. When vernal suns began to glow You felt returning vigour flow; Which once a year new leaves supplied; Like you, fine days I wished to see, And May was a sweet month to me, But when November came—I sighed! If through your bark some ruffian arm A mark impressed, you took the alarm, And tears awhile I saw descend; Till Nature's kind maternal aid A plaister on your bruises laid, And bade your trickling sorrows end. Like you, I feared the lightning's stroke, Whose flame dissolves the strength of oak, And ends at once this mortal dream;— You saw, with grief, the soil decay That from your roots was torn away; You sighed—and cursed the stream. With borrowed earth, and busy spade, Around your roots new life I laid, While joy revived in every vein; (The care of man shall life impart)— Though Nature owns the aid of art, No art, immortal, makes their reign. How much alike our fortune—say— Yet, why must I so soon decay When thou hast scarcely reached thy prime— Erect and tall, you joyous stand; The staff of age has found my hand, That guides me to the grave of time. Could I, fair tree, like you, resign, And banish all those fears of mine, Grey hairs would be no cause of grief; Your blossoms die, but you remain, Your fruit lies scattered o'er the plain— Learn wisdom from the falling leaf. As you survive, by heaven's decree, Let withered flowers be thrown on me Sad compensation for my doom, While winter greens and withering pines And cedars dark, and barren vines, Point out the lonely tomb. The enlivening sun, that burns so bright, Ne'er had a noon without a night, So Life and Death agree; The joys of man by years are broke"— 'Twas thus the man of ninety spoke, Then rose, and left his tree.

In These fair fields unfading flowers abound, Here purple roses cloathe the enchanted ground; Here, to the sun expand the lillies pale Fann'd by the sweet breath of the western gale: Here, fearless hares through dark recesses stray, And troops of leverets take the woodland way, Here stately stags, with branching horns, appear, And rove unsought for, unassail'd by fear: Unknown the snare, the huntsman's fatal dart That wings the death of torture to the heart, In social bands they trace their sylvan reign, Chew the rich cud, or graze along the plain. In these gay shades the nimble deer delight, While herds of goats ascend the rocky height, Browse on the shrubs that shade the vale below, And crop the plants, that there profusely grow.

As 'cross the deep to Priam's shore The Trojan prince bright Helen bore, Old Nereus hushed each noisy breeze And calmed the tumults of the seas. Then, musing on the traitor's doom, Thus he foretold the woes to come; "Ah why remove, mistaken swain, "The prize that Greece shall seize[370] again! "With omens sad, you sail along; "And Europe shall resent the wrong, "Conspire to seize your bride away, "And Priam's town in ashes lay. "Alas! what toils and deaths combined! "What hosts of men and horses joined!— "Bold Pallas now prepares her shield, "And arms her chariot for the field. "Can you with heavenly forms engage, "A goddess kindling into rage; "Who ne'er have dared a mortal foe "And wars, alone, of Venus, know. "In vain you dress your flowing hair, "And songs, to aid the harp, prepare; "The harp, that sung to female ears, "Shall fail when Mars and Greece appears. "In vain will you bewail your bride, "And meanly in her chamber hide, "In hopes to shun, when lingering there, "The massy dart, and Cretan spear. "In vain will you, with quickening pace, "Avoid fierce Ajax in the chace; "For late those locks, that please the eye, "In dust and death must scattered lie. "Do you not see Ulysses, too, "The sage that brings your nation low: "And Nestor from the land of Pyle— "Chiefs skilled in arms and martial toil. "Dost thou not see bold Teucer here, "And him—no tardy chariotteer; "Who both pursue with eager force, "And both controul the thundering horse. "Thou, to thy grief, shalt Merion know, "And Tydeus' son shall prove thy foe, "Who wastes your realms with sword and fire; "Tydides, greater than his sire. "Like timorous deer, prepared to fly "When hungry wolves are passing by, "No more the herbs their steps detain, "They quit their pastures, and the plain: "So you from his triumphant arms "Will fly, with all your female charms; "Can deeds, like these, your valour prove, "Was this your promise to your love? "Achilles' wrath shall but delay "Your ruin to a later day— "The Trojan matrons then may mourn, "And Troy by Grecian vengeance burn."

Ah! Give him a tomb, for a tomb is his due, A shilling, great man, is a trifle to You: If you give him a tomb, that his name may survive, May Fortune attend you, and help you to thrive: May you always have something to praise and approve, And the pleasure to dream of the girl that you love. Prepar'd for the worst, but enjoying the best, With a girl and a bottle he feather'd his nest: Half sick of the world, in the wane of his life, To hasten his exit, he took him a wife, But, finding his fair one a damnable elf, He grounded his arms—and took leave of himself.

Thus, while new laws the stubborn States reclaim, And most for pensions, some for honours aim, You, who first aimed a shaft at George's crown, And marked the way to conquest and renown, While from the vain, the lofty, and the proud, Retiring to your groves, you shun the crowd,— Can toils, like yours, in cold oblivion end, Columbia's patriot, and her earliest friend? Blest, doubly blest, from public scenes retired, Where public welfare all your bosom fired; Your life's best days in studious labours past Your deeds of virtue make your bliss at last; When all things fail, the soul must rest on these!— May heaven restore you to your favourite trees, And calm content, best lot to man assigned, Be heaven's reward to your exalted mind. When her base projects you beheld, with pain, And early doomed an end to Britain's reign. When rising nobly in a generous cause (Sworn foe to tyrants and imported laws) Thou Dickinson! the patriot and the sage, How much we owed to your convincing page:[A] That page—the check of tyrants and of knaves, Gave birth to heroes who had else been slaves, Who, taught by you, denied a monarch's sway; And if they brought him low—you planned the way. Though in this glare of pomp you take no part Still must your conduct warm each generous heart: What, though you shun the patriot vain and loud, While hosts neglect, that once to merit bowed, Shun those gay scenes, were recent laurels grow, The mad Procession, and the painted show; In days to come, when pomp and pride resign, Who would not change his proudest wreathes for thine, In fame's fair fields such well-earned honours share, And Dickinson confess unrivalled there! [1788]

"Torn from your arms by rude relentless hands, No tears recall our lost Alcander home, Who, far removed by fierce piratic bands, Finds in a foreign soil[A] an early tomb:

Well may you grieve!—his race so early done, No years he reached, to urge some task sublime;— No conquests made, no brilliant action won, No verse to bear him through the gulph of time. Amidst these shades and heart depressing glooms, What comfort shall we give—what can we say; In her distress shall we discourse on tombs, Or tell Lavinia, 'tis a cloudy day? The pensive priest accosts her with a sigh: With movement slow, in sable robes he came— But why so sad, philosopher, ah, why, Since from the tomb alone all bliss we claim? By pining care and wakeful sorrow worn, While silent griefs her downcast heart engage, She saw me go, and saw me thrice return To pen my musings on some vacant page. To learning's store, to Galen's science bred, I saw Orestes rove through all the plain: His pensive step no friendly genius led To find one plant that might relieve your pain! Say, do I wake?—or are your woes a dream! Depart, dread vision!—waft me far away: Seek me no more by this sky painted stream That glides, unconscious, to the Indian bay. Alcander!—ah!—what tears for thee must flow— What doom awaits the wretch that tortured thee! May never flower in his cursed garden blow, May never fruit enrich his hated tree: May that fine spark, which Nature lent to man, Reason, be thou extinguished in his brain; Sudden his doom, contracted be his span, Ne'er to exist, or spring from dust again. May no kind genius save his step from harms: Where'er he sails, may tempests rend the sea; May never maiden yield to him her charms, Nor prattling infant hang upon his knee! Retire, retire, forget the inhuman shore: Dark is the sun, when woes like these dismay; Resign your groves, and view with joy no more The fragrant orange, and the floweret gay."

Though past events are hourly read, The various labours of the dead, In vain their story we recall, The rise of empires, or the fall; Our modern men, a busy crew, Must, in their turn, have something new. By moralists we have been told That "Time himself in time grows old; "The seasons change, the moons decay, "The sun shines weaker every day, "Justice is from the world withdrawn, "Virtue and friendship almost gone, "Religion fails (the clergy shew) "And man, alas, must vanish too." Let others such opinions hold, (Since grumbling has been always old;) All Nature must decay, 'tis true, But Nature shall her face renew, Her travels in a circle make, Freeze but to thaw, sleep but to wake. Die but to live, and live to die, In summer smile, in autumn sigh, Resume the garb that once she wore, Repeat the words she said before, Bow down with age, or, fresh and gay, Change, only to prevent decay. As up and down, with weary feet, I travel each fatiguing street, Meeting the frowns of party men, Foes to the freedom of the pen, And to your doors our sheets convey— I sometimes think I hear you say, "Ah, were it not for what he brings, (This messenger of many things) We should be in a sorry plight; The wars of Europe out of sight, No paragraphs of home affairs To tell us how the fabric wears Which Freedom built on Virtue's plan, And Virtue only can maintain." But something further you pretend,— From want of money, heaven defend! Leave that to those who sleep in sheds, Or on the pavement make their beds, Who clean the streets, or carry news, Repair old coats, or cobble shoes— Of every ill with which we're curs'd This want of money is the worst: This was the curse that fell on Cain, The vengeance for a brother slain: For this he quit his native sod, Retreated to the land of Nod, And, in the torture of despair, Turn'd poet, pimp, or newsman there— Divines have labour'd in the dark To find the meaning of his mark: How many idle things they wrote— 'Twas nothing but a ragged coat. Should money, now, be scarce with you, With me, alas, 'tis nothing new! We news-men always are in need, (So Beer and Bacchus have decreed) And still your bounty shall implore Till—printing presses are no more!— Did we not conjure up our strain The year might come and go again, Seasons advance, and moons decay, And life itself make haste away, And news-men only vex their brains To have their labour for their pains— Such usage I may find, 'tis true, But then it would be—something new!