[Poems by Hopkins in] The Echo :: :: University of Virginia Library

Having, with courage fill'd, with honour stor'd,
Drawn in your country's cause your trusty sword,
While yet the scales of conquest doubtful swung,
And Freedom trembling on the balance hung,
Once more most nobly have you strutted forth,
In conscious pride of dignity and worth,
And us'd conveniently the soldier's name,
To make for further pay a modest claim—
A claim so righteous, rational and strong,
'Tis strange how Congress could reject so long:
For 'tis in politics a maxim known,
That those who've had the meat should pick the bone.
So round the skeleton of some old horse,
Far fam'd for beauty, matchless in the course,
Strut the voracious crows in sable pride,
And pick the ribs, and glean the shrivell'd hide;
While the insatiate band, who long before
Had shar'd a double portion, call for more,
And bitterly complain how poor the pay,
For having snatch'd the carcass from decay.

Move on brave sir, in Quixote state advance,
Rear your strong shield, and shake your magic lance,

At your approach alarm'd, that Giant old,
Proud Speculation, trembles in his hold;
Dreads lest your potent arm should lay him low,
His treasures plunder, and his pomp o'erthrow.
No doubt the nest you've stirr'd inflam'd will rise
And jump in angry swarms before your eyes;
Their sting-fraught tails those waspish dogs will rear.
And buzz most dreadful howlings in your ear.
Be persevering in the cause, be bold,
And to the point in view your progress hold;
Keep a taught rein, coax, whip, and spur your horse,
Nor stop him short, nor deviate from the course;
Nor let the open frown, or secret threat
Of Men in office make you quit your seat:
For should you, be assur'd, some means they'll find
To crupper-gall your steed, & make him kick behind.

Long we've been pleas'd with stories, not a few,
Of Congress-men, and Congress-Women too,
Their private bargains, and their party leagues,
Their public brothels, and their sly intrigues,
Their assignations, and their tricks at play,
Their debts of honour, paid in honour's way.
For neither station, title, rank, nor place,
Should screen a public robber from disgrace;
But round his steps let injur'd Justice bawl,
And on his head a nation's curses fall.
Pray sir go on—complete the work begun,
State facts, produce your vouchers one by one;
On whom soe'er your wise suspicions light,
Call forth the villains, be they wrong or right—

Yoke up your “minute men,” hitch fast a chain,
Grease Faction's wheels, and drag them o'er the plain;
Load the old Cart with every crippled dog,
Each speculating, money-asking rogue;
No matter who, nor what—if once they're taken
We'll smoke the rascals into human bacon.
Where'er a villain's form to lurk is seen
Beneath a jacket, strip him to the skin,
Make him sans culottes, tear away his shirt,
And lay the scoundrel sprawling in the dirt.
Perhaps some future time when worth is fled,
When truth is exil'd, and when Virtue dead,
When Freedom's Saviour meets the fatal doom,
And sinks his country's glory in the tomb—
While o'er her Washington's illustrious urn,
The Genius pale of Liberty shall mourn—
Some future President, with impious feet,
Shall dare ascend the exalted patriot's seat,
And o'er Columbia's wretched land display
The mournful blightings of a tyrant's sway.
And then look sharp to find some smaller rogue
Crept somewhere in this lengthy catalogue—
Vice-Presidents, and Registers, Inspectors,
Old Gifford Dallies, Senators, Collectors,
Comptrollers, State-Comptrollers, Office-writers,
Drummers and Fifers, Minters and Auditors
Accountants, Representatives, and Runners.
Clerks, Colonels, Treasures, Quarter-masters, Gunners,

Post-masters, Supervisors, Secretaries,
Chaplains, Philosophers, and Antiquaries,
Whate'er their shape, importance, state or name,
How great so e'er their wealth, or small their fame,
Pluck off the mask, the face infernal shew,
And hold the monster up to public view.

Thou modern Hercules! whose deeds sublime,
Shroud in eclipse each deed of former time,
Urge thy great work by labours undismay'd,
And cleanse the Augean stable with thy spade,
Pitch pile on pile, on ordure ordure spread,
And give the heap to lift on high its head:
While all mankind shall view with wondering eyes,
The fragrant pillar of thy fame arise.
Though dire misrule should riot o'er the world,
And Nature's systems be in ruin hurl'd,
All things chang'd inside out, from man to mouse,
Like corn when parch'd, or tripe prepar'd for souse,
The laws of sober Decency be spurn'd,
And men and women wrong-end upwards turn'd,
From black Confusion's womb shall order rise,
And blinking chaos ope in light his eyes;
Rogues shall be naked stripp'd, of all berest,
Nor e'en a pair of fig-leaf breeches left.
Justice so long asleep shall leave her bed,
Pull off her night-cap, wash, and comb her head;
And the poor soldier worn in fields of strife,
Whose scanty pittance scarce suffices life;
The hapless officer whose pockets low,
Nor bills of credit, gold, or silver know;
The real creditor by power oppress'd,
So long defrauded, and so long distress'd;

Shall bid on high their acclamations rise,
And hoist thy glory, Blanchard, to the skies,
Sing to the wondering stars thy wondrous name,
And make them scowl with envy at thy fame.
As late thy Namesake in his airy car,
Hail'd by their christian-names each well known star,
Told them the glorious news, that France was treating
The wicked Austrians to a woful beating;
And since such bright examples France had given,
'Twas time to talk Equality in heaven—
Nor did he fear the important point to gain,
If means could be contriv'd to bring up Paine.
And having thus the arduous task begun,
Your warp well twisted, and your filling spun,
Bring forth your loom, your ardent shuttle seize,
And weave the web of Faction as you please—
You've had full time this useful trade to learn,
And in your southern tour have purchas'd yarn—
Then, when your cloth is wove, and bleach'd, and dress'd,
The nap well teazled, and the folds well press'd,
To every state present a yard or two—
(Perhaps for some a smaller piece will do)
A precious scrap to feed Rebellion's fire,
'Till Peace and Freedom in the flame expire.
The Levite thus to every Hebrew tribe,
Sent a small boiling from his wanton Rib,
That while his brethren ey'd the novel food,
War, rage, and murder might inflame their blood;

Astonish'd Jebus saw her race expire,
Her town in ruins, and her fields on fire,
Merely because inspir'd by love and wine,
The sons of Belial kiss'd a concubine.
What strange ideas govern'd in those days,
When things so slight so fierce a strife could raise,
How much improv'd the morals of our time
When kissing concubines is held no crime.

An able friend to counsel and advise,
To hatch new schemes and manufacture lies,
You must have found in him, whoe'er he be,
Who wrote that wondrous thing “The soldiers' plea.”
Arm'd at all points, no foe will dare assail
Your barricadoed head, and guarded tail;
While your attack shall make the dastards run,
And death, or something worse, catch every mother's son.
When lazy Sol at both ends clips the day,
And chill November calls out beasts of prey,
Like you great Sir, well charg'd with awful spunk,
From his deep burrow struts the stately skunk;
While men and beasts with upturn'd noses fly,
As the pied Warrior rears his tail on high,
Nor look behind, nor breathe, 'till far without
The direful scatterings of his watry shot—
From the best man that ever shod his feet,
To the poor soul that barefoot treads the street,
From him who stole the war-worn soldiers' right,
And gave but nothing for the widow's mite,
To that extorting sneaking under-bidder,
Who gave but half of that and took the widow,

We'll force the dogs by dint of whips and chains,
To yield again their store of ill-got gains.
In honour's garb impenetrable clad,
Faith's old fusil, and Conscience' shining blade,
A spotless character, a pious shield,
Like Bunyan's saint thou now may'st take the field.
And if again, as in Death's shadowy vale,
Apollyon's arm should try the strength of Hell,
Thyself, with “Mr. Great heart” at thy side,
Shalt bruise the devil's pate, and scotch his hide,
Knock the old scoundrel's horns off at a blow,
And send him howling to the world below.
And tho' blood-suckers to thy legs should stick,
And while thou fightest make thee swear and kick;
Yet thou at last a victory shalt obtain,
And on thy shins shall Honour's scars remain.

Gifford Dally, the name of the Door-keeper of Congress.

See a southern Advertisement, enjoining this important task on Mr. Blanchard, when making his late cheap, and useful serial voyage.

See Pilgrim's Progress.

Author of “The poor soldier's plea”