The sage who took the wrong sow by the ears, And more than kingdoms claimed for Vermonteers; Who, from twelve wigwams down to eight decreased, Is now your prophet, and may serve for priest —
Ye, who embraced the democratic plan, Yet with false tears beheld the wrongs of man — To him apply — go — soothe him in distress, To him fall prostrate — and to him confess.
When first that slave of slaves began to write, Truth cursed his pen, and Reason took her flight: Dullness on him her choicest opiates shed, Black as his heart, and sleepy as his head.
Him on her soil Hibernia could not bear; The viper sickened in that wholesome air,— Then rushed abroad, a Jesuit, in disguise, Flush, on the wings of malice, rage, and lies;
To this new world a nuisance and a pest, To curse the worthy, and abuse the best. Thou base born mass of insolence and dirt, With all the will, but not the power to hurt;
Whose shallow brain each empty line reveals — Art thou worth draggling at our chariot wheels? Who, on the surface of a rugged ground, Would stoop to trail your carcass round and round?—
No — like a Felon, hanged to after time, Be one more victim to the “force of rhyme.” Waft us, ye powers, to some sequestered place, Where never malice shewed its hateful face —
Remove us far from all the ruffian kind ( Baseness with insolence forever joined ) To some retreat of solitude and rest — Nor shall another pang disturb the breast —
When thought returns — and one regrets to know, He had to combat with a two-faced foe.
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