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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354712" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Duellist - Book I</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The clock struck twelve; o'er half the globe<br>Darkness had spread her pitchy robe:<br>Morpheus, his feet with velvet shod,<br>Treading as if in fear he trod,<br>Gentle as dews at even-tide,<br>Distill'd his poppies far and wide.<br>Ambition, who, when waking, dreams<br>Of mighty, but fantastic schemes,<br>Who, when asleep, ne'er knows that rest<br>With which the humbler soul is blest, <br>Was building castles in the air,<br>Goodly to look upon, and fair,<br>But on a bad foundation laid,<br>Doom'd at return of morn to fade.<br>Pale Study, by the taper's light,<br>Wearing away the watch of night,<br>Sat reading; but, with o'ercharged head,<br>Remember'd nothing that he read.<br>Starving 'midst plenty, with a face<br>Which might the court of Famine grace, <br>Ragged, and filthy to behold,<br>Gray Avarice nodded o'er his gold.<br>Jealousy, his quick eye half-closed,<br>With watchings worn, reluctant dozed;<br>And, mean Distrust not quite forgot,<br>Slumber'd as if he slumber'd not.<br>Stretch'd at his length on the bare ground,<br>His hardy offspring sleeping round,<br>Snored restless Labour; by his side<br>Lay Health, a coarse but comely bride. <br>Virtue, without the doctor's aid,<br>In the soft arms of Sleep was laid;<br>Whilst Vice, within the guilty breast,<br>Could not be physic'd into rest.<br>Thou bloody man! whose ruffian knife<br>Is drawn against thy neighbour's life,<br>And never scruples to descend<br>Into the bosom of a friend;<br>A firm, fast friend, by vice allied,<br>And to thy secret service tied, <br>In whom ten murders breed no awe,<br>If properly secured from law:<br>Thou man of lust! whom passion fires<br>To foulest deeds, whose hot desires<br>O'er honest bars with ease make way,<br>Whilst idiot beauty falls a prey,<br>And to indulge thy brutal flame<br>A Lucrece must be brought to shame;<br>Who dost, a brave, bold sinner, bear<br>Rank incest to the open air, <br>And rapes, full blown upon thy crown,<br>Enough to weigh a nation down:<br>Thou simular of lust! vain man,<br>Whose restless thoughts still form the plan<br>Of guilt, which, wither'd to the root,<br>Thy lifeless nerves can't execute,<br>Whilst in thy marrowless, dry bones<br>Desire without enjoyment groans:<br>Thou perjured wretch! whom falsehood clothes<br>E'en like a garment; who with oaths <br>Dost trifle, as with brokers, meant<br>To serve thy every vile intent,<br>In the day's broad and searching eye<br>Making God witness to a lie,<br>Blaspheming heaven and earth for pelf,<br>And hanging friends to save thyself:<br>Thou son of Chance! whose glorious soul<br>On the four aces doom'd to roll,<br>Was never yet with Honour caught,<br>Nor on poor Virtue lost one thought; <br>Who dost thy wife, thy children set,<br>Thy all, upon a single bet,<br>Risking, the desperate stake to try,<br>Here and hereafter on a die;<br>Who, thy own private fortune lost,<br>Dost game on at thy country's cost,<br>And, grown expert in sharping rules,<br>First fool'd thyself, now prey'st on fools:<br>Thou noble gamester! whose high place<br>Gives too much credit to disgrace; <br>Who, with the motion of a die,<br>Dost make a mighty island fly--<br>The sums, I mean, of good French gold<br>For which a mighty island sold;<br>Who dost betray intelligence,<br>Abuse the dearest confidence,<br>And, private fortune to create,<br>Most falsely play the game of state;<br>Who dost within the Alley sport<br>Sums which might beggar a whole court, <br>And make us bankrupts all, if Care,<br>With good Earl Talbot, was not there:<br>Thou daring infidel! whom pride<br>And sin have drawn from Reason's side;<br>Who, fearing his avengeful rod,<br>Dost wish not to believe a God;<br>Whose hope is founded on a plan<br>Which should distract the soul of man,<br>And make him curse his abject birth;<br>Whose hope is, once return'd to earth, <br>There to lie down, for worms a feast,<br>To rot and perish like a beast;<br>Who dost, of punishment afraid,<br>And by thy crimes a coward made,<br>To every generous soul a curse<br>Than Hell and all her torments worse,<br>When crawling to thy latter end,<br>Call on Destruction as a friend,<br>Choosing to crumble into dust<br>Rather than rise, though rise you must: <br>Thou hypocrite! who dost profane,<br>And take the patriot's name in vain;<br>Then most thy country's foe, when most<br>Of love and loyalty you boast;<br>Who, for the love of filthy gold,<br>Thy friend, thy king, thy God hast sold,<br>And, mocking the just claim of Hell,<br>Were bidders found, thyself wouldst sell:<br>Ye villains! of whatever name,<br>Whatever rank, to whom the claim <br>Of Hell is certain, on whose lids<br>That worm, which never dies, forbids<br>Sweet sleep to fall, come, and behold,<br>Whilst envy makes your blood run cold,<br>Behold, by pitiless Conscience led,<br>So Justice wills, that holy bed<br>Where Peace her full dominion keeps,<br>And Innocence with Holland sleeps.<br>Bid Terror, posting on the wind,<br>Affray the spirits of mankind; <br>Bid Earthquakes, heaving for a vent,<br>Rive their concealing continent,<br>And, forcing an untimely birth<br>Through the vast bowels of the earth,<br>Endeavour, in her monstrous womb,<br>At once all Nature to entomb;<br>Bid all that's horrible and dire,<br>All that man hates and fears, conspire<br>To make night hideous as they can,<br>Still is thy sleep, thou virtuous man! <br>Pure as the thoughts which in thy breast<br>Inhabit, and insure thy rest;<br>Still shall thy Ayliffe, taught, though late,<br>Thy friendly justice in his fate,<br>Turn'd to a guardian angel, spread<br>Sweet dreams of comfort round thy head.<br>Dark was the night, by Fate decreed<br>For the contrivance of a deed<br>More black than common, which might make<br>This land from her foundations shake, <br>Might tear up Freedom by the root,<br>Destroy a Wilkes, and fix a Bute.<br>Deep Horror held her wide domain;<br>The sky in sullen drops of rain<br>Forewept the morn, and through the air,<br>Which, opening, laid its bosom bare,<br>Loud thunders roll'd, and lightning stream'd;<br>The owl at Freedom's window scream'd,<br>The screech-owl, prophet dire, whose breath<br>Brings sickness, and whose note is death; <br>The churchyard teem'd, and from the tomb,<br>All sad and silent, through the gloom<br>The ghosts of men, in former times,<br>Whose public virtues were their crimes,<br>Indignant stalk'd; sorrow and rage<br>Blank'd their pale cheeks; in his own age<br>The prop of Freedom, Hampden there<br>Felt after death the generous care;<br>Sidney by grief from heaven was kept,<br>And for his brother patriot wept: <br>All friends of Liberty, when Fate<br>Prepared to shorten Wilkes's date,<br>Heaved, deeply hurt, the heartfelt groan,<br>And knew that wound to be their own.<br>Hail, Liberty! a glorious word,<br>In other countries scarcely heard,<br>Or heard but as a thing of course,<br>Without, or energy, or force:<br>Here felt, enjoy'd, adored, she springs,<br>Far, far beyond the reach of kings, <br>Fresh blooming from our mother Earth:<br>With pride and joy she owns her birth<br>Derived from us, and in return<br>Bids in our breasts her genius burn;<br>Bids us with all those blessings live<br>Which Liberty alone can give,<br>Or nobly with that spirit die<br>Which makes death more than victory.<br>Hail, those old patriots! on whose tongue<br>Persuasion in the senate hung, <br>Whilst they the sacred cause maintain'd.<br>Hail, those old chiefs! to honour train'd,<br>Who spread, when other methods fail'd,<br>War's bloody banner, and prevail'd.<br>Shall men like these unmention'd sleep<br>Promiscuous with the common heap,<br>And (Gratitude forbid the crime!)<br>Be carried down the stream of time<br>In shoals, unnoticed and forgot,<br>On Lethe's stream, like flags, to rot? <br>No--they shall live, and each fair name,<br>Recorded in the book of Fame,<br>Founded on Honour's basis, fast<br>As the round earth to ages last.<br>Some virtues vanish with our breath;<br>Virtue like this lives after death.<br>Old Time himself, his scythe thrown by,<br>Himself lost in eternity,<br>An everlasting crown shall twine<br>To make a Wilkes and Sidney join. <br>But should some slave-got villain dare<br>Chains for his country to prepare,<br>And, by his birth to slavery broke,<br>Make her, too, feel the galling yoke,<br>May he be evermore accursed,<br>Amongst bad men be rank'd the worst;<br>May he be still himself, and still<br>Go on in vice, and perfect ill;<br>May his broad crimes each day increase,<br>Till he can't live, nor die in peace; <br>May he be plunged so deep in shame,<br>That Satan mayn't endure his name,<br>And hear, scarce crawling on the earth,<br>His children curse him for their birth;<br>May Liberty, beyond the grave,<br>Ordain him to be still a slave,<br>Grant him what here he most requires,<br>And damn him with his own desires!<br>But should some villain, in support<br>And zeal for a despairing court, <br>Placing in craft his confidence,<br>And making honour a pretence<br>To do a deed of deepest shame,<br>Whilst filthy lucre is his aim;<br>Should such a wretch, with sword or knife,<br>Contrive to practise 'gainst the life<br>Of one who, honour'd through the land,<br>For Freedom made a glorious stand;<br>Whose chief, perhaps his only crime,<br>Is (if plain Truth at such a time <br>May dare her sentiments to tell)<br>That he his country loves too well:<br>May he--but words are all too weak<br>The feelings of my heart to speak--<br>May he--oh for a noble curse,<br>Which might his very marrow pierce!--<br>The general contempt engage,<br>And be the Martin of his age!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charles+Churchill">Charles Churchill</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354712" data-title="The Duellist - Book I de Charles Churchill" data-description="The clock struck twelve; o'er half the globe
Darkness had spread her pitchy robe:
Morpheus, his feet with velvet shod,
Treading as if in fear he trod,
Gentle as dews at even-tide,
Distill'd his poppies far and wide.
Ambition, who, when waking, dre..."></div>
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