Page images

Doubtless you're right, in your fuperior Way,
But I fhall ne'er feel Heat from all you'll fay.
For little Self fill at my Bofom knocks,
Just as it stirs a S—b—n, or a F—.

For Patriotifm prune Fancy's tow'ring Wings,
Despise King's Meffengers, look down on Kings;
I'll be content to live a home-spun Fool,
Obedient kifs the Rod of fov'reign Rule;
Nor, to my Grief, on Emptiness refine,
While I have folid Gold, Roaft-beef, and Wine.

B. Why am I preaching to a Lump of Earth?
Why, Thou haft been mere Matter from thy Birth.
'Tis rare to find, in thefe corrupted Days,
One Throb for Virtue, or for Virtue's Praife.
But, ftupid Mortal, be not too fecure;

Nor think we're always wretched when we're poor.
Confcience from Right, e'en when a Booby fwerves,
With Eye fagacious all his Crimes obferves:
And tho' he rocks her, for a Time, afleep,

While gilded Knaves for him their Festals keep;


Yethis good injur'd Angel turn'd a Fiend,

Is not fo foon from her Commiffion wean'd;
With tenfold Fury from her Torpor wakes,

Darts in his Face her Sulphur, and her Snakes,
Distinguishing for ever to her Prey,

The Night with Horror, and with Shame the Day.

Be mine then, all Thou thinkeft but a Dream; Thine be the Haunch's titillating Steam.

To think beneath myself I do not fall,

Will footh the Voice of Hunger's piercing Call.
Tremble Thou ever while the Great pass by,
And let me view them with a steady Eye.

Come, Virtue's fair Companion, conscious Thought!
By the World's Empire not too dearly bought;
The Pride of Youth, and the Support of Years,
That even canst mingle Ecstasy with Tears;
Oh! deign to take thy Mansion in my Breast,

And as I'm virtuous, ever make me bleft?

Make me ftill bold, to Manhood up, from Youth,
And ev'ry Friend of Liberty and Truth.

Ꭰ .


And when returning Seafons bring my Age
(The Care for ever of the Good and Sage)
Bufy'd no more in the World's empty Strife,
When all deferts me, e'en my very Life;
Then, confcious Thought, refufe me not thy Aid,
But with thy Gleams refresh my lonely Shade.

But what for Thee, thou mifcreant vile Remains,
When ebbing Nature creeps along thy Veins?
I shall poffess the pure ethereal Joy,

Which Nought on Earth can heighten or annoy :
A floating painted Bubble but thy Share,
That Bubble broken by a Breath of Air;
Thy Heart with Joy elate, with Sorrow drown'd,
As a rich Puppy just hath smil'd or frown'd.
Perhaps the noblest Triumph of thy Soul
Will be the Chance of a Sans prendre Vole:
To flee thyself thou wilt be forc'd to crawl,
And strive to hop with Burnett at a Ball;
Confiftent but in one infernal Plan,

To war with Nature, with thyfelf, and Man;


Splutter, the veriest wrangling Thing alive,

Swear Black is White, and Two and Three not Five;
Vexing, breathe out thy latest Breath, and vext,
Loath'd by this World, and trembling for the next.

But diff'rent Entertainment will await
The conftant Tenour of my mortal State;
Pleasures, which only to myself I'll owe,

Pleasures, which Thou and B-e shall never know:
To the World's Glitter be thy Views refign'd;
Give me the milder Luftre of the Mind.

BERWICK, Dec. 17,




« PreviousContinue »