TO THE ROYALIST UNVEILED

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.