For speech like this, (too weak the voice of Fame) The mouths of Cannon shall convey thy name: Such threatened deeds of hostile godlike ire, Should travel only on the Wings of Fire.

Shall Pity be an inmate of thy breast?
No, be a Grinding-stone its rugged guest.
Why should a virtue, man, thy mind bewitch?
Lo, Generosity was never rich.

What! woo the Virtues, of the world the sport;
Nay, worse, who dare not show their nose at Court!

What gives the general wish for power to glow?To look contemptuous on the World below; To bid that World bow down, admire, adore; And grind the sallow faces of the Poor.

Ask, to the Forest-laws what man gave birth? A Nimrod, lo! a lofty Lord of Earth.

Yet why should Hares, and Partridges, and Grouse, Alone be ravish'd from the farmer's house?

Go, Lonsdale, get an Act to raise thy fame,

And make the farmers' Wives and Daughters game.

Whence, on a sudden, dost thou thus inherit

This soft, forbearing, Lamb-like, Dove-like spirit?

VOL. III.

1

C

I saw sharp Vengeance tip-toe in thine eyes;
How comes it that the threatening spirit dies?

Yet, yet I see the Feudal Times return, When Tyrants bid in chains the Million mourn; When Slaves to Grandeur crouch amid the dust, And Havoc roams to please the ruling lust; When Pride as calmly from the shoulders plucks The heads of Vassals, as the heads of Ducks.

Curse on the liberty of modern days! Again let Power her rod of iron raise. Hang the French dogs; a mangy mongrel Cry, That, running riot, on their Huntsman fly! How are the sacred robes of Greatness rent! Kings and Nobility fall'n cent per cent!

Sure, Lonsdale, thou art not too weak to know, From general riches what misfortunes flow. Wealth, for delicious Slavery spoils a Nation:

Adieu at once to Gods and Adoration!

Say, would

you

bid the under-world adore, Crouch, flatter, tremble?-Keep the rascals poor. Tyrannic, would you wish to cut and carve 'em?

Their backs are at your service, only starve 'em.

Give them but money, quick uprise the knaves,
Forgetting in a moment they are Slaves:
Lost to the meanness of their former station,
The scornful upstarts damn their occupation.
Lo, the proud Blacksmith, late a slave to coal,
To honours turns his elevated soul !

The cross-legg'd Taylor, lo, forgets his peers;
Kicks his old goose, the knave, and breaks his shears!
The Show-man scorns poor Punch, his late support,
And straw-stuff'd Ladies of th' Arcadian Court;
This quits his Camel; that, his Conjuring Hogs;
And Kings no more can dance with Dancing-dogs*.
Grant wealth, no more the humble Cobler cow'rs;
But boldly deems his blood as rich as ours,
And blasphemously thinks th' Almighty's plan
Ordain'd no difference between man and man.
Such is the sad effect of wealth, rank pride :
Thus, mount a Beggar, how the
rogue will ride!

Parent of Insolence is Wealth, I ween:

Then 'mid thy neighbours let her not be seen. 'Tis Poverty that forges curbs for men,

And tempts divine Oppression from her den.

• It is an undeniable fact, that a certain great King (it is said, for the diversion of his children only) held out the skirts of his coat, and danced a Minuet on Windsor Terrace, some years since, with one of the canine Figurantes.

What folly then, to let thine host repose;

To suffer Cumberland to lift the nose!

Down with their Hosts, and horsewhip them like Dogs;
Sties be their Beds, their food the food of Hogs.
Keep famish'd, sons and daughters, fathers, mothers:
Nor let them beat in trade their grinning Brothers;
Iberian Monkeys, that, to business bred,
Well pleas'd, for maravedis* hunt the head.

To India's history turn thy happy eyes,

And bid a second scene of Horrors rise.

By Britons led, did Famine's spectre train
Pour devastation on the fair domain.

What humbled victims sunk beneath the strife!
What thousands, tottering, snatch'd at parting life!
Nought could, alas! their suppliant hands avail :
In vain each feature told a starving tale;

On those rich heaps that rose beneath their care,
Their eye-balls fastening in a deadly glare.
There hadst thou seen the sallow Babe distrest,
Hard-clinging to a dying Mother's breast;
Beating that breast with little, peevish cry,
Its plumpness wither'd, and its fountain dry.
Such was the scene; while every night, to sup,
The Jackalls left their woods, to eat them up.

• A very small Spanish coin, much inferior in value to a Farthing.

Humanity's a pigeon-hearted fool;
Soft, puling, as the Girl at Boarding-school,

That alms upon the begging wretch bestows,
And learns to sorrow at the tale of woes.

Where is Ambition? Dead?-It never dies: Brutes, insects, boast it; elephants and flies. The Horse would rather the blood-spur should gore him, Than let a Fellow-traveller pace before him: And lo the Spaniel, when the master cheers A Brother, with what jealousy he hears! Unblest, attention how he tries to raise; Paws for a gentle pat, and whines for praise.

Eye nature through, and mark the arm of Pow'r :The great unceasingly the small devour.

Blest on a dainty dish of Flies to dine,
Lo, by the Spider weaved the silken line!
A giddy Wanderer strikes the waving net;
Hitch'd his poor pinions, hitch'd his harmless feet:
Quick from his cave, that hid his watchful head,
The nimble Tyrant scours along the thread;
Whips from the store-room of his guts a string,
And binds his Captive's vainly-buzzing wing;