And, having held him up to shame,
Bring to the pole from whence he came."
Forthwith the crowd proceed to deck
With halter'd noose M'FINGAL's neck,
While he in peril of his soul
Stood tied half-hanging to the pole;
Then, lifting high the ponderous jar,
Pour'd o'er his head the smoaking tar:
With less profusion once was spread
Oil on the Jewish monarch's head,
That down his beard and vestments ran,
And cover'd all his outward man.
As when (so Claudian sings) the Gods
And earth-born Giants fell at odds,
The stout Enceladus in malice
Tore mountains up to throw at Pallas,
And, while he held them o'er his head,
The river from their fountains fed
Pour'd down his back its copious tide,
And wore its channels in his hide:
So from the high-raised urn the torrents
Spread down his side their various currents;
His flowing wig, as next the brim,
First met and drank the sable stream;
Nor Milton's six-wing'd angel gathers
Such superfluity of feathers.
Now all complete appears our 'Squire,
Like Gorgon or Chimæra dire;
Nor more could boast on Plato's plan
To rank among the race of man,
Or prove his claim to human nature,
As a two-legg'd, unfeather'd creature.
Then on the fatal cart in state
They raised our grand Duumvirate.
And as at Rome a like committee
Who found an owl within their city
With solemn rites and grave processions
At every shrine perform'd lustrations,
And, least infection might take place
From such grim fowl with feather'd face,
All Rome attends him through the street
In triumph to his country seat;
With like devotion all the choir
Paraded round our awful 'Squire:
In front the martial music comes
Of horns and fiddles, fifes and drums,
With jingling sound of carriage bells,
And treble creak of rusted wheels;
THE HAPPINESS OF AMERICA
Thrice happy race! how blest were freedom's heirs,
Blest if they knew what happiness is theirs,
Blest if they knew to them alone 't is given
To know no sov'reign but the law and Heaven!
That law for them and Albion's realms alone
On sacred justice elevates her throne,
Regards the poor, the fatherless protects,
The widow shields, the proud oppressor checks.
Blest if they knew beneath umbrageous trees
To prize the joys of innocence and ease,
Of peace, of health, of temp'rance, toil, and rest,
And the calm sun-shine of the conscious breast.
For them the spring his annual task resumes,
Invests in verdure and adorns in blooms
Earth's parent lap and all her wanton bow'rs
In foliage fair with aromatic flow'rs.
Their fanning wings the zephyrs gently play,
And winnow blossoms from each floating spray;
In bursting buds the embryo fruits appear,
The hope and glory of the rip'ning year.
The mead that courts the scythe, the pastur'd vale,
The lofty maize its ears luxurient yields,
The yellow harvests gild the laughing fields,
Extend o'er all th' interminable plain,
And wave in grandeur like the boundless main.
For them the flock o'er green savannas feeds,
For them high-prancing bound the playful steeds,
For them the heifers graze sequester'd dales,
Or pour white nectar in the brimming pails.
To them, what time the hoary frosts draw near,
Ripe autumn brings the labours of the year.
To nature's sons how fair th' autumnal even,
The fading landscape and impurpled heaven,
As from their fields they take their homeward way,
And turn to catch the sun's departing ray!
What streaming splendours up the skies are roll'd,
Whose colours beggar Tyrian dyes and gold!
'Till night's dun curtains, wide o'er all display'd,
Shroud shad'wy shapes in melancholy shade.
Then doubling clouds the wintry skies deform,
And, wrapt in vapour, comes the roaring storm,
With snows surcharg'd from tops of mountains sails,
Loads leafless trees and fills the whiten'd vales.
Then desolation strips the faded plains,
Then tyrant death o'er vegetation reigns;
The birds of Heav'n to other climes repair,
And deep'ning glooms invade the turbid air.
Nor then unjoyous winter's rigours come,
But find them happy and content with home:
Their gran'ries fill'd, the task of culture past,
Warm at their fire they hear the howling blast,
With patt'ring rain and snow or driving sleet,
Rave idly loud and at their window beat;
Safe from its rage, regardless of its roar,
In vain the tempest rattles at the door.
The tame brutes shelter'd, and the feather'd brood,
From them, more provident, demand their food:
"T is then the time from hoarding cribs to feed
The ox laborious and the noble steed;
"T is then the time to tend the bleating fold,
To strow with litter and to fence from cold.
The cattle fed, the fuel pil'd within,
At setting day the blissful hours begin:
"T is then, sole owner of his little cot,
The farmer feels his independent lot,
Hears with the crackling blaze that lights the wall
The voice of gladness and of nature call,
Beholds his children play, their mother smile,
And tastes with them the fruit of summer's toil.
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