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 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
Dangerfield's Ghost to J---
Revenge!
Revenge! my injur'd Shade begins
To haunt thy guilty Soul, and scourge thy sins:
For since to me thou ow'st the heaviest score,
Whose Living words tormented thee before,
When Dead, I'm come to plague thee yet once more.
Don't start away, nor think thy Brass to hide,
But see the dismal shape in which I dy'd!
My Body all deform'd with putrid Gore,
Bleeding my Soul away at every Pore;
Pusht faster on by Francis, less unkind;
My Body swoln, and bloated as thy Mind.
This dangling Eye-Ball rolls about in vain,
Never to find its proper seat again,
The hollow Cell usurpt by Blood and Brain:
The trembling Jury's Verdict ought to be
Murder'd at once, by Francis, and by Thee.
To haunt thy guilty Soul, and scourge thy sins:
For since to me thou ow'st the heaviest score,
Whose Living words tormented thee before,
When Dead, I'm come to plague thee yet once more.
Don't start away, nor think thy Brass to hide,
But see the dismal shape in which I dy'd!
My Body all deform'd with putrid Gore,
Bleeding my Soul away at every Pore;
Pusht faster on by Francis, less unkind;
My Body swoln, and bloated as thy Mind.
This dangling Eye-Ball rolls about in vain,
Never to find its proper seat again,
The hollow Cell usurpt by Blood and Brain:
The trembling Jury's Verdict ought to be
Murder'd at once, by Francis, and by Thee.
167
The Groans of Orphans, and the pondrous guilt
Of all the Blood that thou hast ever spilt;
Thy Counteys Curse, the Rabbles Spite, and all
Those Wishes sent thee since thy long-wisht Fall;
The Nobles just Revenge, so bravely bought,
For all the Ills thy Insolence has wrought:
May these and more their utmost force combine,
Joyn all their Wrongs, and mix their Cries with mine.
Of all the Blood that thou hast ever spilt;
Thy Counteys Curse, the Rabbles Spite, and all
Those Wishes sent thee since thy long-wisht Fall;
The Nobles just Revenge, so bravely bought,
For all the Ills thy Insolence has wrought:
May these and more their utmost force combine,
Joyn all their Wrongs, and mix their Cries with mine.
And see, if Terror has not struck thee blind;
See here a long, a ghastly Train behind!
Far, far, from utmost WEST they crowd away,
And hov'ring o'er, fright back the sickly Day;
Had the poor Wretches sinn'd as much as Thee,
Thou shou'dst not have forgot Humanity:
Who e'er in Blood can so much pleasure take?
Tho an ill Judge wou'd a good Hang-man make.
Each hollows in thy Ears,—Prepare! Prepare
For what thou must, yet what thou canst not bear!
Each, at thy Heart a bloody Dagger aims,
Upward to Gibbets point, downward to enless Flames.
See here a long, a ghastly Train behind!
Far, far, from utmost WEST they crowd away,
And hov'ring o'er, fright back the sickly Day;
Had the poor Wretches sinn'd as much as Thee,
Thou shou'dst not have forgot Humanity:
Who e'er in Blood can so much pleasure take?
Tho an ill Judge wou'd a good Hang-man make.
Each hollows in thy Ears,—Prepare! Prepare
For what thou must, yet what thou canst not bear!
Each, at thy Heart a bloody Dagger aims,
Upward to Gibbets point, downward to enless Flames.
| Poems on Affairs of State | |