IV.

Thou, who art plac'd in some more favour'd spot,

Where spires ascend, and ships from every clime

Discharge their freights — despise not thou the lot

Of humble Type, who here has pass'd his prime;

At case and press has labour'd many a day,

But now, in years, is verging to decay.

He, in his time, the patriot of his town,

With press and pen attack'd the royal side,

Did what he could to pull their Lion down,

Clipp'd at his beard, and twitch'd his sacred hide,

Mimick'd his roarings, trod upon his toes,

Pelted young whelps, and tweak'd the old one's nose.

Rous'd by his page, at church or court-house read,

From depths of woods the willing rustics ran,

Now by a priest, and now some deacon led

With clubs and spits to guard the rights of man;

Lads from the spade, the pick-ax, or the plough,

Marching afar, to fight Burgoyne or Howe.

Where are they now?— the Village asks with grief,

What were their toils, their conquests, or their gains?—

Perhaps, they near some State-House beg relief,

Perhaps, they sleep on Saratoga's plains;

Doom'd not to live, their country to reproach

For seven-years’ pay transferr'd to Mammon's coach.

Ye Guardians of your country and her laws!

Since to the pen and press so much we owe

Still bid them favour freedom's sacred cause,

From this pure source, let streams unsullied flow;

Hence, a new order grows on reason's plan,

And turns the fierce barbarian into — man.

Child of the earth, of rude materials fram'd,

Man, always found a tyrant or a slave,

Fond to be honour'd, valued, rich, or fam'd

Roves o'er the earth, and subjugates the wave:

Despots and kings this restless race may share,—

But knowledge only makes them worth your care!