Blamed though you are, pursue your way; Night evermore precedes the sun; Whate'er some angry king's-men say, You play a game that must be won: The bliss of man--is the great prize That yet at stake with tyrants lies.
When first a mean, designing few Their poisonous dregs by Herald spread; An antidote, by such as you, Was at the root of mischief laid; With a simple herb from Reason's plains You kept all right in Freedom's veins.
Now hostile views, and low design Are busy to annoy your page, Controul its strength, its fires confine, And war with sense and reason wage: They hope, with fogs to quench the sun, They hope your useful race is run.
But though some narrow hearts contrive To shove you from your mounted car; Right pleasantly we see you drive, And hardly heed their little war: Like insects, creeping in the dirt, They merely serve to make you sport.
Who looks at Kings, a court, a queen, With childish pomp, and borrowed fame, But wonders from what genius mean Their chaos of confusion came-- Yet those on little things depend, And every reptile is their friend.
"That one may write--and write--and be a villain, "At least, I'm sure it may be so in--Denmark."--_Hamlet._
"While with the loss of blood and spirits some faint, "Others are seen to rise, triumphant, "O'er slaughter'd thousands sent to Pluto's shores, "Where Stygian water in dull torrent roars-- "What hosts, what myriads fell, "By lancet and by calomell, "All gone, in Philadelphia's epidemic, "And sent the substance of mankind to mimic."
So said that Man divine Bold Peter Porcupine, Who through these climes his vast subscription spread, And rais'd four thousand ghosts; and struck with dread, All Democratic knaves, Disorganizing slaves-- He with bold wit, And spirit and spit, From Nova Scotia to the woods of Maine, True federalism did maintain; And through those mighty thriving states, Distributed his dainty, blackguard bits.
Ah--Peter!--Thou, poor lousy numps Who loadest little horses' rumps, And mak'st them trot and sweat, On sandy road Beneath the load Of trash call'd _Peter Porcupine's Gazette_. What have you done to claim Columbia's love That she--like some base-- Should court a scoundrel from a foreign shore And make him tool to--some apostate Jove,