TO MY BOOK

Seven years are now elaps'd, dear rambling volume,

Since, to all knavish wights a foe,

I sent you forth to vex and gall‘ em,

Or drive them to the shades below:

With spirit, still, of Democratic proof,

And still despising Shylock's canker'd hoof:

What doom the fates intend, is hard to say,

Whether to live to some far-distant day,

Or sickening in your prime,

In this bard-baiting clime,

Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and flit away.

“Virtue, order, and religion,

“Haste, and seek some other region;

“Your plan is laid, to hunt them down,

“Destroy the mitre, rend the gown,

“And that vile hag, Philosophy, restore” —

Did ever volume plan so much before?

For seven years past, a host of busy foes

Have buzz'd about your nose,

White, black, and grey, by night and day;

Garbling, lying, singing, sighing:

These eastern gales a cloud of insects bring

That fluttering, snivelling, whimpering — on the wing —

And, wafted still as discord's demon guides,

Flock round the flame, that yet shall singe their hides.

Well!— let the fates decree whate'er they please:

Whether you're doom'd to drink oblivion's cup,

Or Praise-God Barebones eats you up,

This I can say, you've spread your wings afar,

Hostile to garter, ribbon, crown, and star;

Still on the people's, still on Freedom's side,

With full determin'd aim, to baffle every claim

Of well-born wights, that aim to mount and ride.