University of Virginia Library

When Faction, pois'nous as the scorpion's sting,
Infects the people and insults the King;
When foul Sedition skulks no more conceal'd,
But grasps the sword and rushes to the field;
When Justice, Law, and Truth are in disgrace,
And Treason, Fraud, and Murder fill their place;
Smarting beneath accumulated woes,
Shall we not dare the tyrants to expose?
We will, we must—tho' mighty Laurens frown,
Or Hancock with his rabble hunt us down;
Champions of virtue, we'll alike disdain
The guards of Washington, the lies of Payne;
And greatly bear, without one anxious throb,
The wrath of Congress, or its lords the mob.
Bad are the Times, almost too bad to paint;
The whole head sickens, the whole heart is faint;
The State is rotten, rotten to the core,
'Tis all one bruize, one putrefying sore.
Here Anarchy before the gaping crowd
Proclaims the people's majesty aloud;
There Folly runs with eagerness about,
And prompts the cheated populace to shout;
Here paper-dollars meagre Famine holds,
There votes of Congress Tyranny unfolds;
With doctrines strange in matter and in dress,
Here sounds the pulpit, and there groans the press;
Confusion blows her trump—and far and wide
The noise is heard—the plough is thrown aside;
The awl, the needle, and the shuttle drops;
Tools change to swords, and camps succeed to shops;
The doctor's glister-pipe, the lawyer's quill,
Transform'd to guns, retain the power to kill;
From garrets, cellars, rushing thro' the street,
The new-born statesmen in committee meet;
Legions of senators infest the land,
And mushroom generals thick as mushrooms stand.

Ye western climes, where youthful plenty smil'd,
Ye plains just rescued from the dreary wild,
Ye cities just emerging into fame,
Ye minds new ting'd with learning's sacred flame,
Ye people wondering at your swift increase,
Sons of united liberty and peace,
How are your glories in a moment fled?
See, Pity weeps, and Honour hangs his head.

O! for some magic voice, some pow'rful spell,
To call the Furies from profoundest hell;
Arise, ye Fiends, from dark Cocytus' brink;
Soot all my paper; sulphurize my ink;
So with my theme the colours shall agree,
Brimstone and black, the livery of Lee.

They come, they come!—convulsive heaves the ground,
Earth opens—Lo! they pour, they swarm around;
About me throng unnumber'd hideous shapes,
Infernal wolves, and bears, and hounds, and apes;
All Pandemonium stands reveal'd to sight;
Good monsters, give me leave, and let me write:
They will be notic'd—Memory, set them down,
Tho' reason stand aghast, and order frown.

Whence and what art thou, execrable form,
Rough as a bear, and roaring as a storm?
Ay, now I know thee—Livingston art thou—
Gall in thy heart, and malice on thy brow;
Coward, yet cruel—zealous, yet profane;
Havoc, and spoil, and ruin are thy gain;
Go, glut like Death thy vast unhide-bound maw,
Remorseless swallow liberty and law;
At one enormous stroke a nation slay,
But thou thyself shall perish with thy prey.

What Fiend is this of countenance acute,
More of the knave who seems, and less of brute;
Whose words are cutting like a show'r of hail,
And blasting as the mildew in the vale?
'Tis Jay—to him these characters belong:
Sure sense of right, with fix'd pursuit of wrong;
An outside keen, where malice makes abode,
Voice of a lark, and venom of a toad;
Semblance of worth, not substance, he puts on;
And Satan owns him for his darling son.

Flit not around me thus, pernicious elf,
Whose love of country terminates in self;
Back to the gloomy shades, detested sprite,
Mangler of rhet'ric, enemy of right;
Curs'd of thy father; sum of all that's base;
Thy sight is odious, and thy name is Chase.

What spectre's that with eyes on earth intent,
Whose god is gold, whose glory cent. per cent.;
Whose soul, devoted to the love of gain,
Revolts from feelings noble or humane?
Let friends, let family, let country groan,
Despairing widows shriek, and orphans moan;
Turn'd to the centre, where his riches grow,
His eye regards not spectacles of woe;
Morris, look up—for so thy name we spell—
On earth, Bob Morris—Mammon 'tis in hell.
Wretch, who hast meanly sold thy native land,
Tremble, thou wretch, for vengeance is at hand;
Soon shall thy treasures fly on eagle's wings,
And Conscience goad thee with her thousand stings.

Of head erect, and self-sufficient mien,
Another Morris presses to be seen;
Demons of vanity, you know him sure;
This is your pupil, this is Gouverneur;
Some little knowledge, and some little sense,
More affectation far, and more pretence;
Such is the man—his tongue he never balks,
On all things talkable he boldly talks;
A specious orator, of law he prates;
A pompous nothing, mingles in debates;
Consummate impudence, sheer brass of soul,
Crowns every sentence, and completes the whole;
In other times unnotic'd he might drop:
Confusion makes a statesman of a fop.

Hail, Faction, wayward queen, whose charms retain
Such opposites—the sordid, and the vain:
Who jar in all things else, in thee unite;
Robert the greedy, Gouverneur the light;
And if another contrast we display,
Still both are thine, the serious and the gay.
There is a man, all spirit, life, and ease,
Whose native humour never fails to please;
There is a man devout, reserv'd, austere,
Whose grave demeanor other men revere;
These, whom their various turns forbad to meet,
Have met in Congress in communion sweet;
There, mirth put off, and gravity resign'd,
The two sworn brothers stand in treason join'd;
Iö triumphe, sing the dev'lish fiends,
Discordant natures whose seduction blends.
But still the question agitates mankind,
Could Duer be over-reach'd, Duane be blind?
Thy sprightly genius, Duer, coulds't thou controul,
The flow of wit, the sallies of the soul,
Abandon every muse, and every grace,
For eminence among a savage race?
Coulds't thou, Duane, give up thy favourite church,
And leave religion weeping in the lurch,
Bid truth and decent piety adieu,
For dire promotion o'er a godless crew?
In Jotham's famous apologue we read,
Not so the fruit-trees wiser far decreed;
Shall we, said they, our wine and oil desert,
Which decorate the face, and cheer the heart,
Quit peace and plenty, elegance and ease,
To reign scrub monarchs over barbarous trees?
'Twere strange—but stranger, Honour to resign,
And govern, legion-like, the herd of swine.

What group of Wizards next salutes my eyes,
United comrades, quadruple allies?
Bostonian Cooper, with his Hancock join'd,
Adams with Adams, one in heart and mind.
Sprung from the soil, where witches swarm'd of yore,
They come well skill'd in necromantic lore;
Intent on mischief, busily they toil,
The magic cauldron to prepare and boil;
Array'd in sable vests, and caps of fur,
With wands of ebony the mess they stir;
See! the smoke rises from the cursed drench,
And poisons all the air with horrid stench.

Celestial muse, I fear 'twill make thee hot
To count the vile ingredients of the pot:
Dire incantations, words of death, they mix
With noxious plants, and Water from the Styx;
Treason's rank flow'rs, Ambition's swelling fruits,
Hypocrisy in seeds, and Fraud in roots,
Bundles of Lies fresh gather'd in their prime,
And stalks of Calumny grown stale with time;
Handfuls of Zeal's intoxicating leaves;
Riot in bunches, Cruelty in sheaves;
Slices of Cunning cut exceeding thin;
Kernels of Malice, rotten cores of Sin;
Branches of Persecution, boughs of Thrall,
And sprigs of Superstition, dipt in gall;
Opium to lull or madden all the throng,
And assa-fœtida profusely strong;
Milk from Tisiphone's infernal breast;
Herbs of all venom, drugs of every pest,
With minerals from the centre brought by Gnomes;
All seethe together till the furnace foams.

Was this the potion, this the draught design'd
To cheat the croud, and fascinate mankind?
O void of reason they, who thus were caught;
O lost to virtue, who so cheap were bought;
O folly, which all folly sure transcends,
Such bungling sorc'rers to account as friends.

Yet tho' the frantic populace applaud,
'Tis Satire's part to stigmatize the fraud.
Exult, ye jugglers, in your lucky tricks;
Yet on your fame the lasting brand we'll fix.
Cheat male and female, poison age and youth;
Still we'll pursue you with the goad of truth.
Whilst in mid-heav'n shines forth the golden flame,
Hancock and Adams shall be words of shame;
Whilst silver beams the face of night adorn,
Cooper of Boston shall be held in scorn.

Strike up, hell's music! roar, infernal drums!
Discharge the cannon—Lo! the warrior comes!
He comes, not tame as on Ohio's banks,
But rampant at the head of ragged ranks.
Hunger and itch are with him—Gates and Wayne—
And all the lice of Egypt in his train.
Sure these are Falstaff's soldiers, poor and bare;
Or else the rotten regiments of Rag-fair:
Bid the French generals to their Chief advance,
And grace his suite—O shame! they're fled to France.
Wilt thou, great chief of Freedom's lawless sons,
Great captain of the western Goths and Huns,
Wilt thou for once permit a private man
To parley with thee, and thy conduct scan?
At Reason's bar has Catiline been heard:
At Reason's bar e'en Cromwell has appear'd:
Successless, or successful, all must stand
At her tribunal with uplifted hand.
Severe, but just, the case she fairly states;
And fame or infamy her sentence waits.

Hear thy indictment, Washington, at large;
Attend and listen to the solemn charge:
Thou hast supported an atrocious cause
Against thy King, thy Country, and the laws;
Committed perjury, encourag'd lies,
Forced conscience, broken the most sacred ties;
Myriads of wives and fathers at thy hand
Their slaughter'd husbands, slaughter'd sons demand;
That pastures hear no more the lowing kine,—
That towns are desolate, all—all is thine;
The frequent sacrilege that pain'd my sight:
The blasphemies my pen abhors to write;
Innumerable crimes on thee must fall—
For thou maintainest, thou defendest all.

Wilt thou pretend that Britain is in fault?
In Reason's court a falsehood goes for nought.
Will it avail, with subterfuge refin'd
To say, such deeds are foreign to thy mind?
Wilt thou assert that, generous and humane,
Thy nature suffers at another's pain?
He who a band of ruffians keeps to kill,
Is he not guilty of the blood they spill?
Who guards M'Kean, and Joseph Reed the vile,
Help'd he not murder Roberts and Carlisle?
So, who protects committees in the chair,
In all their shocking cruelties must share.

What could, when half-way up the hill to fame,
Induce thee to go back, and link with shame?
Was it ambition, vanity, or spite,
That prompted thee with Congress to unite;
Or did all three within thy bosom roll,
“Thou heart of hero with a traitor's soul?”
Go, wretched author of thy country's grief,
Patron of villainy, of villains chief;
Seek with thy cursed crew the central gloom,
Ere Truth's avenging sword begin thy doom;
Or sudden vengeance of celestial dart
Precipitate thee with augmented smart.

O Poet, seated on the lofty throne,
Forgive the bard who makes thy words his own;
Surpriz'd I trace in thy prophetic page
The crimes, the follies of the present age;
Thy scenery, sayings, admirable man,
Pourtray our struggles with the dark Divan.
What Michael to the first arch-rebel said,
Would well rebuke the rebel army's head;
What Satan to th' angelic Prince replied,
Such are the words of Continental pride.
I swear by Him, who rules the earth and sky,
The dread event shall equally apply;
That Clinton's warfare is the war of God,
And Washington shall feel the vengeful rod.