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SYMPTOMS OF THE MILLENNIUM, IN THE YEAR 1801. |
 | [Poems by Hopkins in] The Echo |  |
SYMPTOMS OF THE MILLENNIUM, IN THE YEAR 1801.
By Prophets, and by Seers of old,
When men, and beasts should all be blest
With long, and universal rest—
When fists no more 'gainst fists should rise,
No bloody nose, nor blacken'd eyes,
When gaols should into taverns turn,
The gallows be cut up to burn,
“Oppress'd humanity” no more,
Should wander to Botania's shore—
But birds of every note, and feather,
And snakes, and toads should flock together,
And bears, and wolves should learn to browse,
And go to pasture with our cows—
Then every child well brac'd with health,
Well fed, well cloth'd, and fill'd with wealth,
No sorrows in his bosom rankling,
Shall die as old as Doctor Franklin;
“Chief Consul” of the other Devils,
Shall, for his sins, and tricks, and strife,
To the State Prison be sent for life.
Behold the beams in yonder sky!
The cock has crown'd; from spray to spray,
The songsters greet the God of Day;
The day-spring fires the east with red,
And smiles on every mountain's head.
But who the symptoms can relate,
Which verify the book of fate?
Whose eagle-eye 'mid guilt, and crimes,
Can mark the Signs of coming Times?
Not heedless all—through toil and pains,
A little remnant yet remains—
A David Austin still is found,
Shouting with wild, ecstatic sound,
That Babel's haggard, painted Whore,
Shall dance “the Dragon's-Tail” no more;
That “True and Faithful” from the Cross,
Rides General Washington's old horse;
That soon, the Gentiles, and the Jews,
In his new Church will purchase pews,
The Four-and-twenty Elders come,
Bright from their everlasting home,
To dress themselves in Hum-hum gowns,
A Parson Leland, , too, at ease,
High mounted on a “Mammoth-Cheese,”
From curds, and skippers lifts his sight,
Like Moses on mount Pisgah's height,
Through whey and rennet darts his eye,
And sees new-milk beyond the sky,
With exultation swings his hat,
As flows the nectar to his vat,
And while the mighty mass is pressing,
Drops on his knee, and asks a blessing.
May act with skill the prophet's art,
Point out events which clearly show,
The world is getting rid of woe,
And when a few more years have run,
Mankind will tread knee-deep in fun.
Nor shall our proofs be drawn from far,
From former years, “before the war,”
Lest Infidels, from mere vexation,
Should plead the act of limitation.
Bade the Old Century “good bye,”
When lo! there rose a mighty stir,
'Twixt Jefferson and Col. Burr.
A direful contest then ensued,
Which some suppos'd would end in blood.
At length a Lyon grim and bold
For desperate warfare fam'd of old,
Declar'd himself Behemoth's friend,
And brought the combat to an end,
Bade dire hostility to cease,
And hush'd “Republicans” to peace—
Then join'd the Presidential flocks,
And ate the herbage like an ox;
Among his master's beasts to graze.
Starts up the Presidential form,
Like Daniel from the Lion's Den,
Unhurt stalks forth “the first of Men,”
With cautious step, and measur'd stride,
(Perambulator at his side)
Unblush'd his cheek, no fear nor quaking,
Though humbled at the undertaking,
And climbs with bold unhallow'd feet,
Great Washington's exalted seat—
[OMITTED]
But stop this course, this strain forbear,
There's no Millennial symptom here—
[OMITTED]
But hark! what soft and dulcet note,
Pours from his philanthropic throat?
“Behold I come, prepar'd to heal
All bruises in the Commonweal,
Blest Intercourse shall bleed no more.
We're brothers of the self-same breed,
A Demo-Janglo-Federal seed.
Soon shall this land from sorrow rest,
“And all the sons of want be blest.”
Vox populi through ether rings
And brings to pass surprising things;
An Irish-howl our land pervades,
And overpow'rs our statesmen's heads,
Bursts through the doors of Honour's shop,
Steals all her cash, and locks it up.
Soon “Labour's mouth” its jaws shall ope,
And feed on Metaphor and Trope,
Soon a cheap government shall see
An end, to our felicity.”
Ere the whole land is drown'd in peace,
Conciliation fiercely burns,
And Harmony in droves returns,
Concord like yellow-fever rages,
And sweeps all sizes, ranks and ages.
Goodrich and Chester lead the bands,
And at their heels go Fish, and Sands.
While to do honour to the nation,
Gelston and Osgood take their station;
To pay for Abra'm Bishop's speaking,
An office lights upon the Deacon,
And tott'ring off life's rugged stage,
Like fabled fool he bends his back,
And takes a Jack-Ass for his pack.
And men are guag'd alone by merit;
Regardless where they found their birth,
Here, or some foreign spot of earth.
For what are kingdoms, states, or nations?
Does Geography confine our stations?
And are not men, where'er they're found,
The tenants of great Nature's ground,
All brothers of the human race,
Uninfluenc'd by time, or space?
These arguments resistless prove,
That no man should his country love
Exclusively—the world is common,
The property of Man and Woman.
And hence we find that our affairs,
Our laws, our interests, and our cares,
Our Constitution—all, are whole
Beneath a foreigner's controul—
That renegades a numerous bevy,
From England, Ireland, and Geneva,
A pure disinterested race,
From motives kind of love, and grace,
To govern us will condescend,
And lead us to a prosperous end.
Would Duane bask and batten here?
Would Dallas, insect of an hour,
Roll round in splendour, wealth and power?
Would Jackson's “seeds” so early sown,
Have to such pods of “greatness” grown?
Or Gallatin have found a seat,
Just where our cash, and credit meet?
Each star with new-born lustre shines—
Old Clinton from his dotard den,
Once more crawls out to govern men.
Has puk'd and purg'd the Commonweal,
White-wash'd old Fenner's smoky coat,
Prov'd him “Not Guilty” by a vote,
By numbers borne Judge Dorrance down,
And warn'd thanksgiving out of town.
His goose-quill in his master's cause!
Deals out his literary bastings,
To turn the vote 'gainst Mr. Hastings,
Sets up a wind-mill of his own,
And grinds out nonsense for the town,
Becomes Attorney for all classes,
Like Balaam talks with men and asses,
Holds dialogues with trees and sheep,
And wades with stone-walls to the deep.
Connecticut has had her share.
At Wallingford it first broke out,
And show'd itself in noise and rout;
Men grew voracious, ate like swine,
Drank freely different sorts of wine,
O'ercharg'd, and snor'd till break of day,
Then quitted, but forgot to pay,
Following the Prophet's sage advice,
To buy their milk without a price.
Yet here “the People's friends” exist,
See Hyde and Wilcox's Protest!
Wolcott and Potter coalesce,
The moral field to dung and dress;
Yet Gemmill prays, and Griswold preaches,
And Babcock promises this year,
Truth in the Mercury shall appear.
And make the wondering thousands stare!
Each post, and packet, mail, express,
Bears home a copy of th' Address.
Soft to our ears its warblings reach,
A new “inauguration speech.”
“See through the earth war's tumults cease!
Blest be the power that gives us peace!
To him let gratitude be show'd,
Be he or Bonaparte or God!
But, while you feel the general joy,
Let other themes your minds employ.”
“The Enterprize” in combat fair,
Has beat a Tripoline Corsair,
Kill'd half his men, his vessel taken,
Plunder'd his guns—but sav'd his bacon.”
“The Indians too, so fame relates,
Begin to throng around these states,
Their numbers rapidly increase,
An earnest strong of future peace;
Therefore with joy we ought to yearn,
O'er every popoose that is born.
And here a stimulus we find,
To propagate the human kind;
Fulfil, at least, this one command;
And let “our energies” obey,
What Indians and the bible say.”
What can thy bright career withstand;
When “Labour's mouth” is cramm'd with bread,
When nought is tail, and all is head,
When taxes all are swept away,
And “Living cheap” 's the only play—
What stupid mortal's head can doubt,
The Devil's time is almost out,
That Gog, and Magog must retreat,
And own their troops are fairly beat,
And that our country soon will find,
A French Millennium to her mind.
Vulgarly called Botany-Bay. Probably President Jefferson forgot this asylum for “oppressed humanity,” when he so pathetically sung (by proxy) his requiem over our Naturalization Law.
“The ornament of human nature,” three or four years older than Deacon Bishop. See Mr. J---n's reply to the remonstrance of the Merchants of New-Haven, on the appointment of Deacon Bishop as collector.
See some of the works of this rational Divine, in which he proves, clearly, that the white horse which General Washington used to ride, the white horse which the Marquis La Fayette rode, and the white horse which Bonaparte rides, are the horses which were prefigured by that in the Apocalypse, on which was seated HIM whose name was Faithful and True. In the same book is particularly described the dance of the Whore of Babylon. It is storied of this extraordinary man, that having discovered that the Millennium would begin at New-Haven, and knowing that the Jews were fond of trading, he built a long row of stores for them and the Gentiles; and that he procured four-and-twenty long white hum-hum garments to be made for the four-and-twenty Elders.
The elegant author of a “Blow at the Root,” and a “Stroke at the Branch,” of all order and government; and also the Guardian Genius of Curds and Whey, at Cheshire, Massachusetts.
It must be a very gratifying reflection to the native inhabitants of the United States, that the important point—who should be their President—was settled by the power of Matthew Lyon.
It is said that a certain great man has invented a piece of machinery called a Perambulator, which, when hung to his thigh, will tell him—how many steps he has taken in any of his perambulations.—What a useful thing this must be. Certainly such a genius must make a good President. This discovery, at least as far as appearances go, is equivalent to contriving for mankind o third leg; which is equal to a fifth wheel to a coach.
Duane, an Irish “fugitive and vagabond,” holds a birth under the present administration, which is computed to be worth TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS A YEAR. Could not some native citizen, some officer of our Revolutionary War, have been found, oppressed by poverty, to whom such a chance to reap a little of that harvest which he helped to sow, would have been received with thankfulness?
| [Poems by Hopkins in] The Echo | |