The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

R---, let thy soul enjoy the hour!
See Night her grisly spectres pour!
The clock proclaims her at her highest noon;
Lone silence shall our work befriend,
Her shoes of cygnet down shall lend;
The cloud's black mantle muffle the pale moon.

Newgate to brother Tower shall roar aloud:
‘So thick the pris'ners my dark dwelling crowd,
I cannot put a pin between the knaves;
‘And glutted too, am I, and I, and I.’
The Tow'r and echoing jails around reply—
‘And I, and I,’ each loaded compter raves.

The sated pillory shall roar:
‘I'm tir'd, I'm tir'd—can squeeze no more.’
The gibbet, surfeited with death, shall groan!
And, shuddering, lo, at human woes,
The tomb its pond'rous jaws shall close,
While Pity's fruitless tear embalms the stone.

122

Oh! would kind Night extend th' eternal shade,
And help in Murder's cause our panting breath!
For, lo! to Murder with his reeking blade,
The beam of morning seems the gloom of death.

Lo, where the innocents repose,
Our longing hands shall scatter woes,
And Fear shall whiten ev'ry haggard face.
Sly to the pillow will we creep,
Dash with rude arm the bonds of sleep,
And drag a husband from a wife's embrace.

In vain shall Terror lift the suppliant cry;
Our hearts, two rugged rocks, the sound defy.

Behold, behold a youth with muddled brain,
Reeling, the Lord knows where, a little drunk,
Perhaps to slumber with a fav'rite punk:
The rascal mutters Freedom and Tom Paine.

Soon, like a pair of eagles on a pig,
On this poor midnight stroller let us fall:
Drag him before the justice and his wig,
And swear to treason that he did not bawl.

This will be pleasant to our lords on high,
Who call the under-world of man,
An assish, mulish, packhorse clan,
Shreds of mortality, with scornful eye.

Look to the histories of ancient times,
Their pleasant prose, and tale-recording rhimes:
Kings were God's images—rever'd the throne:
Submission then, indeed, with eye-balls low'ring,
And suppliant hands and pray'r, and forehead cow'ring,
Spoke treason, if she call'd her soul her own.

Knock down the man who out of reason rules;
Believes that monarchs can be rogues and fools.
Virtues are transferable, just like stock,
With title-pass, that dignifies a block.

123

Title on ugliness confers a bloom—
Bids carrion drop its stench, and breathe perfume—
To palaces converts the meanest house,
And with an eagle's pinion, mounts the mouse.

Saddle black Despot for the field, so strong,
With such a spirit as no curb can tame:
His chest, like Job's wild horse, with thunder hung,
With mouth of bleeding foam, and eye of flame.

On Despot mounted, let us boldly ride,
And cover mountains with the crimson tide.

B--- and K---, men of busy merit,
Shall rouse to crush the democratic spirit,
And at the pris'ners shake their lion-manes;
And Curtis, now Lord-May'r, now not so small,
Shall fill with culprits soon th' Egyptian hall,
From hedges, ditches, alleys, courts, and lanes.

Justice shall find brisk work upon her hand:
Pronounce quick fate, and thin a miscreant land;
Thus lucky thriving, make, in blood campaigns,
A nabob's fortune, by her ropes and chains!