Poems on Several Occasions In Two Volumes. By Mr. Joseph Mitchell |
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A PICTURE Of the RISE and FALL of a STATESMAN. |
 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
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A PICTURE Of the RISE and FALL of a STATESMAN.
Inscrib'd to Mr. Thomas Gordon.
Dear Thomas, did you never see
('Tis but by Way of Simile)
The Watermen at Temple Stairs,
Officious in their own Affairs,
Attentive looking up the Lane,
In Hopes some Passenger to gain,
Who, being come, they croud to meet,
And, all at once, loud-bawling, greet
With Proffer of their Sculs and Oars,
And call their Brothers Sons of Whores;
Nor cease their noisy Zeal, till he
Says This or That's the Man for me?
But, back returning, not a Word,
Nor Hat does e'er a Man afford;
No Soul attempts to make a Bustle,
And out of the Way his Neighbour jostle;
All, silent, let him pass neglected,
As if he ne'er had been respected?
('Tis but by Way of Simile)
The Watermen at Temple Stairs,
Officious in their own Affairs,
Attentive looking up the Lane,
In Hopes some Passenger to gain,
347
And, all at once, loud-bawling, greet
With Proffer of their Sculs and Oars,
And call their Brothers Sons of Whores;
Nor cease their noisy Zeal, till he
Says This or That's the Man for me?
But, back returning, not a Word,
Nor Hat does e'er a Man afford;
No Soul attempts to make a Bustle,
And out of the Way his Neighbour jostle;
All, silent, let him pass neglected,
As if he ne'er had been respected?
Just so, dear Thomas, does it fare
With one prefer'd to publick Care!
Around him, Courtiers croud to hail,
And to applaud him never fail,
Proffer their Service, and apply
For Pension, Place, or Charity:
But, when turn'd out, how soon he's left!
How soon of flatt'ring Praise bereft!
Scarce is he known by those he rais'd!
Scarce by the giddy Rabble gaz'd!
'Tis well, if no Man does no worse,
Than pass him with an idle Curse:
If, but bespatter'd with their Dirt,
He 'scapes amid the Croud, unhurt.
With one prefer'd to publick Care!
Around him, Courtiers croud to hail,
And to applaud him never fail,
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For Pension, Place, or Charity:
But, when turn'd out, how soon he's left!
How soon of flatt'ring Praise bereft!
Scarce is he known by those he rais'd!
Scarce by the giddy Rabble gaz'd!
'Tis well, if no Man does no worse,
Than pass him with an idle Curse:
If, but bespatter'd with their Dirt,
He 'scapes amid the Croud, unhurt.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |