<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=424410" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>M'Fingal - Canto III</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now warm with ministerial ire,<br>Fierce sallied forth our loyal 'Squire,<br>And on his striding steps attends<br>His desperate clan of Tory friends.<br>When sudden met his wrathful eye<br>A pole ascending through the sky,<br>Which numerous throngs of whiggish race<br>Were raising in the market-place.<br>Not higher school-boy's kites aspire,<br>Or royal mast, or country spire;<br>Like spears at Brobdignagian tilting,<br>Or Satan's walking-staff in Milton.<br>And on its top, the flag unfurl'd<br>Waved triumph o'er the gazing world,<br>Inscribed with inconsistent types<br>Of Liberty and thirteen stripes.<br>Beneath, the crowd without delay<br>The dedication-rites essay,<br>And gladly pay, in antient fashion,<br>The ceremonies of libation;<br>While briskly to each patriot lip<br>Walks eager round the inspiring flip:<br>Delicious draught! whose powers inherit<br>The quintessence of public spirit;<br>Which whoso tastes, perceives his mind<br>To nobler politics refined;<br>Or roused to martial controversy,<br>As from transforming cups of Circe;<br>Or warm'd with Homer's nectar'd liquor,<br>That fill'd the veins of gods with ichor.<br>At hand for new supplies in store,<br>The tavern opes its friendly door,<br>Whence to and fro the waiters run,<br>Like bucket-men at fires in town.<br>Then with three shouts that tore the sky,<br>'Tis consecrate to Liberty.<br>To guard it from th' attacks of Tories,<br>A grand Committee cull'd of four is;<br>Who foremost on the patriot spot,<br>Had brought the flip, and paid the shot.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>By this, M'Fingal with his train<br>Advanced upon th' adjacent plain,<br>And full with loyalty possest,<br>Pour'd forth the zeal, that fired his breast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;What mad-brain'd rebel gave commission,<br>To raise this May-pole of sedition?<br>Like Babel, rear'd by bawling throngs,<br>With like confusion too of tongues,<br>To point at heaven and summon down<br>The thunders of the British crown?<br>Say, will this paltry Pole secure<br>Your forfeit heads from Gage's power?<br>Attack'd by heroes brave and crafty,<br>Is this to stand your ark of safety;<br>Or driven by Scottish laird and laddie,<br>Think ye to rest beneath its shadow?<br>When bombs, like fiery serpents, fly,<br>And balls rush hissing through the sky,<br>Will this vile Pole, devote to freedom,<br>Save like the Jewish pole in Edom;<br>Or like the brazen snake of Moses,<br>Cure your crackt skulls and batter'd noses?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Ye dupes to every factious rogue<br>And tavern-prating demagogue,<br>Whose tongue but rings, with sound more full,<br>On th' empty drumhead of his scull;<br>Behold you not what noisy fools<br>Use you, worse simpletons, for tools?<br>For Liberty, in your own by-sense,<br>Is but for crimes a patent license,<br>To break of law th' Egyptian yoke,<br>And throw the world in common stock;<br>Reduce all grievances and ills<br>To Magna Charta of your wills;<br>Establish cheats and frauds and nonsense,<br>Framed to the model of your conscience;<br>Cry justice down, as out of fashion,<br>And fix its scale of depreciation;<br>Defy all creditors to trouble ye,<br>And keep new years of Jewish jubilee;<br>Drive judges out, like Aaron's calves,<br>By jurisdiction of white staves,<br>And make the bar and bench and steeple<br>Submit t' our Sovereign Lord, The People;<br>By plunder rise to power and glory,<br>And brand all property, as Tory;<br>Expose all wares to lawful seizures<br>By mobbers or monopolizers;<br>Break heads and windows and the peace,<br>For your own interest and increase;<br>Dispute and pray and fight and groan<br>For public good, and mean your own;<br>Prevent the law by fierce attacks<br>From quitting scores upon your backs;<br>Lay your old dread, the gallows, low,<br>And seize the stocks, your ancient foe,<br>And turn them to convenient engines<br>To wreak your patriotic vengeance;<br>While all, your rights who understand,<br>Confess them in their owner's hand;<br>And when by clamours and confusions,<br>Your freedom's grown a public nuisance,<br>Cry &quot;Liberty,&quot; with powerful yearning,<br>As he does &quot;Fire!&quot; whose house is burning;<br>Though he already has much more<br>Than he can find occasion for.<br>While every clown, that tills the plains,<br>Though bankrupt in estate and brains,<br>By this new light transform'd to traitor,<br>Forsakes his plough to turn dictator,<br>Starts an haranguing chief of Whigs,<br>And drags you by the ears, like pigs.<br>All bluster, arm'd with factious licence,<br>New-born at once to politicians.<br>Each leather-apron'd dunce, grown wise,<br>Presents his forward face t' advise,<br>And tatter'd legislators meet,<br>From every workshop through the street.<br>His goose the tailor finds new use in,<br>To patch and turn the Constitution;<br>The blacksmith comes with sledge and grate<br>To iron-bind the wheels of state;<br>The quack forbears his patients' souse,<br>To purge the Council and the House;<br>The tinker quits his moulds and doxies,<br>To cast assembly-men and proxies.<br>From dunghills deep of blackest hue,<br>Your dirt-bred patriots spring to view,<br>To wealth and power and honors rise,<br>Like new-wing'd maggots changed to flies,<br>And fluttering round in high parade,<br>Strut in the robe, or gay cockade.<br>See Arnold quits, for ways more certain,<br>His bankrupt-perj'ries for his fortune,<br>Brews rum no longer in his store,<br>Jockey and skipper now no more,<br>Forsakes his warehouses and docks,<br>And writs of slander for the pox;<br>And cleansed by patriotism from shame,<br>Grows General of the foremost name.<br>For in this ferment of the stream<br>The dregs have work'd up to the brim,<br>And by the rule of topsy-turvies,<br>The scum stands foaming on the surface.<br>You've caused your pyramid t' ascend,<br>And set it on the little end.<br>Like Hudibras, your empire's made,<br>Whose crupper had o'ertopp'd his head.<br>You've push'd and turn'd the whole world up-<br>Side down, and got yourselves at top,<br>While all the great ones of your state<br>Are crush'd beneath the popular weight;<br>Nor can you boast, this present hour,<br>The shadow of the form of power.<br>For what's your Congress or its end?<br>A power, t' advise and recommend;<br>To call forth troops, adjust your quotas--<br>And yet no soul is bound to notice;<br>To pawn your faith to th' utmost limit,<br>But cannot bind you to redeem it;<br>And when in want no more in them lies,<br>Than begging from your State-Assemblies;<br>Can utter oracles of dread,<br>Like friar Bacon's brazen head,<br>But when a faction dares dispute 'em,<br>Has ne'er an arm to execute 'em:<br>As tho' you chose supreme dictators,<br>And put them under conservators.<br>You've but pursued the self-same way<br>With Shakespeare's Trinc'lo in the play;<br>&quot;You shall be Viceroys here, 'tis true,<br>&quot;But we'll be Viceroys over you.&quot;<br>What wild confusion hence must ensue?<br>Tho' common danger yet cements you:<br>So some wreck'd vessel, all in shatters,<br>Is held up by surrounding waters,<br>But stranded, when the pressure ceases,<br>Falls by its rottenness to pieces.<br>And fall it must! if wars were ended,<br>You'll ne'er have sense enough to mend it:<br>But creeping on, by low intrigues,<br>Like vermin of a thousand legs,<br>'Twill find as short a life assign'd,<br>As all things else of reptile kind.<br>Your Commonwealth's a common harlot,<br>The property of every varlet;<br>Which now in taste, and full employ,<br>All sorts admire, as all enjoy:<br>But soon a batter'd strumpet grown,<br>You'll curse and drum her out of town.<br>Such is the government you chose;<br>For this you bade the world be foes;<br>For this, so mark'd for dissolution,<br>You scorn the British Constitution,<br>That constitution form'd by sages,<br>The wonder of all modern ages;<br>Which owns no failure in reality,<br>Except corruption and venality;<br>And merely proves the adage just,<br>That best things spoil'd corrupt to worst:<br>So man supreme in earthly station,<br>And mighty lord of this creation,<br>When once his corse is dead as herring,<br>Becomes the most offensive carrion,<br>And sooner breeds the plague, 'tis found,<br>Than all beasts rotting on the ground.<br>Yet with republics to dismay us,<br>You've call'd up Anarchy from chaos,<br>With all the followers of her school,<br>Uproar and Rage and wild Misrule:<br>For whom this rout of Whigs distracted,<br>And ravings dire of every crack'd head;<br>These new-cast legislative engines<br>Of County-meetings and Conventions;<br>Committees vile of correspondence,<br>And mobs, whose tricks have almost undone 's:<br>While reason fails to check your course,<br>And Loyalty's kick'd out of doors,<br>And Folly, like inviting landlord,<br>Hoists on your poles her royal standard;<br>While the king's friends, in doleful dumps,<br>Have worn their courage to the stumps,<br>And leaving George in sad disaster,<br>Most sinfully deny their master.<br>What furies raged when you, in sea,<br>In shape of Indians, drown'd the tea;<br>When your gay sparks, fatigued to watch it,<br>Assumed the moggison and hatchet,<br>With wampum'd blankets hid their laces,<br>And like their sweethearts, primed their faces:<br>While not a red-coat dared oppose,<br>And scarce a Tory show'd his nose;<br>While Hutchinson, for sure retreat,<br>Manoeuvred to his country seat,<br>And thence affrighted, in the suds,<br>Stole off bareheaded through the woods.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Have you not roused your mobs to join,<br>And make Mandamus-men resign,<br>Call'd forth each dufill-drest curmudgeon,<br>With dirty trowsers and white bludgeon,<br>Forced all our Councils through the land,<br>To yield their necks at your command;<br>While paleness marks their late disgraces,<br>Through all their rueful length of faces?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Have you not caused as woeful work<br>In our good city of New-York,<br>When all the rabble, well cockaded,<br>In triumph through the streets paraded,<br>And mobb'd the Tories, scared their spouses,<br>And ransack'd all the custom-houses;<br>Made such a tumult, bluster, jarring,<br>That mid the clash of tempests warring,<br>Smith's weather-cock, in veers forlorn,<br>Could hardly tell which way to turn?<br>Burn'd effigies of higher powers,<br>Contrived in planetary hours;<br>As witches with clay-images<br>Destroy or torture whom they please:<br>Till fired with rage, th' ungrateful club<br>Spared not your best friend, Beelzebub,<br>O'erlook'd his favors, and forgot<br>The reverence due his cloven foot,<br>And in the selfsame furnace frying,<br>Stew'd him, and North and Bute and Tryon?<br>Did you not, in as vile and shallow way,<br>Fright our poor Philadelphian, Galloway,<br>Your Congress, when the loyal ribald<br>Belied, berated and bescribbled?<br>What ropes and halters did you send,<br>Terrific emblems of his end,<br>Till, least he'd hang in more than effigy,<br>Fled in a fog the trembling refugee?<br>Now rising in progression fatal,<br>Have you not ventured to give battle?<br>When Treason chaced our heroes troubled,<br>With rusty gun, and leathern doublet;<br>Turn'd all stone-walls and groves and bushes,<br>To batteries arm'd with blunderbusses;<br>And with deep wounds, that fate portend,<br>Gaul'd many a Briton's latter end;<br>Drove them to Boston, as in jail,<br>Confined without mainprize or bail.<br>Were not these deeds enough betimes,<br>To heap the measure of your crimes:<br>But in this loyal town and dwelling,<br>You raise these ensigns of rebellion?<br>'Tis done! fair Mercy shuts her door;<br>And Vengeance now shall sleep no more.<br>Rise then, my friends, in terror rise,<br>And sweep this scandal from the skies.<br>You'll see their Dagon, though well jointed,<br>Will shrink before the Lord's anointed;<br>And like old Jericho's proud wall,<br>Before our ram's horns prostrate fall.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>This said, our 'Squire, yet undismay'd,<br>Call'd forth the Constable to aid,<br>And bade him read, in nearer station,<br>The Riot-act and Proclamation.<br>He swift, advancing to the ring,<br>Began, &quot;Our Sovereign Lord, the King&quot;--<br>When thousand clam'rous tongues he hears,<br>And clubs and stones assail his ears.<br>To fly was vain; to fight was idle;<br>By foes encompass'd in the middle,<br>His hope, in stratagems, he found,<br>And fell right craftily to ground;<br>Then crept to seek an hiding place,<br>'Twas all he could, beneath a brace;<br>Where soon the conq'ring crew espied him,<br>And where he lurk'd, they caught and tied him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>At once with resolution fatal,<br>Both Whigs and Tories rush'd to battle.<br>Instead of weapons, either band<br>Seized on such arms as came to hand.<br>And as famed Ovid paints th' adventures<br>Of wrangling Lapithæ and Centaurs,<br>Who at their feast, by Bacchus led,<br>Threw bottles at each other's head;<br>And these arms failing in their scuffles,<br>Attack'd with andirons, tongs and shovels:<br>So clubs and billets, staves and stones<br>Met fierce, encountering every sconce,<br>And cover'd o'er with knobs and pains<br>Each void receptacle for brains;<br>Their clamours rend the skies around,<br>The hills rebellow to the sound;<br>And many a groan increas'd the din<br>From batter'd nose and broken shin.<br>M'Fingal, rising at the word,<br>Drew forth his old militia-sword;<br>Thrice cried &quot;King George,&quot; as erst in distress,<br>Knights of romance invoked a mistress;<br>And brandishing the blade in air,<br>Struck terror through th' opposing war.<br>The Whigs, unsafe within the wind<br>Of such commotion, shrunk behind.<br>With whirling steel around address'd,<br>Fierce through their thickest throng he press'd,<br>(Who roll'd on either side in arch,<br>Like Red Sea waves in Israel's march)<br>And like a meteor rushing through,<br>Struck on their Pole a vengeful blow.<br>Around, the Whigs, of clubs and stones<br>Discharged whole vollies, in platoons,<br>That o'er in whistling fury fly;<br>But not a foe dares venture nigh.<br>And now perhaps with glory crown'd<br>Our 'Squire had fell'd the pole to ground,<br>Had not some Pow'r, a whig at heart,<br>Descended down and took their part;<br>(Whether 'twere Pallas, Mars or Iris,<br>'Tis scarce worth while to make inquiries)<br>Who at the nick of time alarming,<br>Assumed the solemn form of Chairman,<br>Address'd a Whig, in every scene<br>The stoutest wrestler on the green,<br>And pointed where the spade was found,<br>Late used to set their pole in ground,<br>And urged, with equal arms and might,<br>To dare our 'Squire to single fight.<br>The Whig thus arm'd, untaught to yield,<br>Advanced tremendous to the field:<br>Nor did M'Fingal shun the foe,<br>But stood to brave the desp'rate blow;<br>While all the party gazed, suspended<br>To see the deadly combat ended;<br>And Jove in equal balance weigh'd<br>The sword against the brandish'd spade,<br>He weigh'd; but lighter than a dream,<br>The sword flew up, and kick'd the beam.<br>Our 'Squire on tiptoe rising fair<br>Lifts high a noble stroke in air,<br>Which hung not, but like dreadful engines,<br>Descended on his foe in vengeance.<br>But ah! in danger, with dishonor<br>The sword perfidious fails its owner;<br>That sword, which oft had stood its ground,<br>By huge trainbands encircled round;<br>And on the bench, with blade right loyal,<br>Had won the day at many a trial,<br>Of stones and clubs had braved th' alarms,<br>Shrunk from these new Vulcanian arms.<br>The spade so temper'd from the sledge,<br>Nor keen nor solid harm'd its edge,<br>Now met it, from his arm of might,<br>Descending with steep force to smite;<br>The blade snapp'd short--and from his hand,<br>With rust embrown'd the glittering sand.<br>Swift turn'd M'Fingal at the view,<br>And call'd to aid th' attendant crew,<br>In vain; the Tories all had run,<br>When scarce the fight was well begun;<br>Their setting wigs he saw decreas'd<br>Far in th' horizon tow'rd the west.<br>Amazed he view'd the shameful sight,<br>And saw no refuge, but in flight:<br>But age unwieldy check'd his pace,<br>Though fear had wing'd his flying race;<br>For not a trifling prize at stake;<br>No less than great M'Fingal's back.<br>With legs and arms he work'd his course,<br>Like rider that outgoes his horse,<br>And labor'd hard to get away, as<br>Old Satan struggling on through chaos;<br>Till looking back, he spied in rear<br>The spade-arm'd chief advanced too near:<br>Then stopp'd and seized a stone, that lay<br>An ancient landmark near the way;<br>Nor shall we as old bards have done,<br>Affirm it weigh'd an hundred ton;<br>But such a stone, as at a shift<br>A modern might suffice to lift,<br>Since men, to credit their enigmas,<br>Are dwindled down to dwarfs and pigmies,<br>And giants exiled with their cronies<br>To Brobdignags and Patagonias.<br>But while our Hero turn'd him round,<br>And tugg'd to raise it from the ground,<br>The fatal spade discharged a blow<br>Tremendous on his rear below:<br>His bent knee fail'd, and void of strength<br>Stretch'd on the ground his manly length.<br>Like ancient oak o'erturn'd, he lay,<br>Or tower to tempests fall'n a prey,<br>Or mountain sunk with all his pines,<br>Or flow'r the plow to dust consigns,<br>And more things else--but all men know 'em,<br>If slightly versed in epic poem.<br>At once the crew, at this dread crisis,<br>Fall on, and bind him, ere he rises;<br>And with loud shouts and joyful soul,<br>Conduct him prisoner to the pole.<br>When now the mob in lucky hour<br>Had got their en'mies in their power,<br>They first proceed, by grave command,<br>To take the Constable in hand.<br>Then from the pole's sublimest top<br>The active crew let down the rope,<br>At once its other end in haste bind,<br>And make it fast upon his waistband;<br>Till like the earth, as stretch'd on tenter,<br>He hung self-balanced on his centre.<br>Then upwards, all hands hoisting sail,<br>They swung him, like a keg of ale,<br>Till to the pinnacle in height<br>He vaulted, like balloon or kite.<br>As Socrates of old at first did<br>To aid philosophy get hoisted,<br>And found his thoughts flow strangely clear,<br>Swung in a basket in mid air:<br>Our culprit thus, in purer sky,<br>With like advantage raised his eye,<br>And looking forth in prospect wide,<br>His Tory errors clearly spied,<br>And from his elevated station,<br>With bawling voice began addressing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Good Gentlemen and friends and kin,<br>For heaven's sake hear, if not for mine!<br>I here renounce the Pope, the Turks,<br>The King, the Devil and all their works;<br>And will, set me but once at ease,<br>Turn Whig or Christian, what you please;<br>And always mind your rules so justly,<br>Should I live long as old Methus'lah,<br>I'll never join in British rage,<br>Nor help Lord North, nor Gen'ral Gage;<br>Nor lift my gun in future fights,<br>Nor take away your Charter-rights;<br>Nor overcome your new-raised levies,<br>Destroy your towns, nor burn your navies;<br>Nor cut your poles down while I've breath,<br>Though raised more thick than hatchel-teeth:<br>But leave King George and all his elves<br>To do their conq'ring work themselves.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>This said, they lower'd him down in state,<br>Spread at all points, like falling cat;<br>But took a vote first on the question,<br>That they'd accept this full confession,<br>And to their fellowship and favor,<br>Restore him on his good behaviour.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Not so our 'Squire submits to rule,<br>But stood, heroic as a mule.<br>&quot;You'll find it all in vain, quoth he,<br>To play your rebel tricks on me.<br>All punishments, the world can render,<br>Serve only to provoke th' offender;<br>The will gains strength from treatment horrid,<br>As hides grow harder when they're curried.<br>No man e'er felt the halter draw,<br>With good opinion of the law;<br>Or held in method orthodox<br>His love of justice, in the stocks;<br>Or fail'd to lose by sheriff's shears<br>At once his loyalty and ears.<br>Have you made Murray look less big,<br>Or smoked old Williams to a Whig?<br>Did our mobb'd Ol'ver quit his station,<br>Or heed his vows of resignation?<br>Has Rivington, in dread of stripes,<br>Ceased lying since you stole his types?<br>And can you think my faith will alter,<br>By tarring, whipping or the halter?<br>I'll stand the worst; for recompense<br>I trust King George and Providence.<br>And when with conquest gain'd I come,<br>Array'd in law and terror home,<br>Ye'll rue this inauspicious morn,<br>And curse the day, when ye were born,<br>In Job's high style of imprecations,<br>With all his plagues, without his patience.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Meanwhile beside the pole, the guard<br>A Bench of Justice had prepared,<br>Where sitting round in awful sort<br>The grand Committee hold their Court;<br>While all the crew, in silent awe,<br>Wait from their lips the lore of law.<br>Few moments with deliberation<br>They hold the solemn consultation;<br>When soon in judgment all agree,<br>And Clerk proclaims the dread decree;<br>&quot;That 'Squire M'Fingal having grown<br>The vilest Tory in the town,<br>And now in full examination<br>Convicted by his own confession,<br>Finding no tokens of repentance,<br>This Court proceeds to render sentence:<br>That first the Mob a slip-knot single<br>Tie round the neck of said M'Fingal,<br>And in due form do tar him next,<br>And feather, as the law directs;<br>Then through the town attendant ride him<br>In cart with Constable beside him,<br>And having held him up to shame,<br>Bring to the pole, from whence he came.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Forthwith the crowd proceed to deck<br>With halter'd noose M'Fingal's neck,<br>While he in peril of his soul<br>Stood tied half-hanging to the pole;<br>Then lifting high the ponderous jar,<br>Pour'd o'er his head the smoaking tar.<br>With less profusion once was spread<br>Oil on the Jewish monarch's head,<br>That down his beard and vestments ran,<br>And cover'd all his outward man.<br>As when (so Claudian sings) the Gods<br>And earth-born Giants fell at odds,<br>The stout Enceladus in malice<br>Tore mountains up to throw at Pallas;<br>And while he held them o'er his head,<br>The river, from their fountains fed,<br>Pour'd down his back its copious tide,<br>And wore its channels in his hide:<br>So from the high-raised urn the torrents<br>Spread down his side their various currents;<br>His flowing wig, as next the brim,<br>First met and drank the sable stream;<br>Adown his visage stern and grave<br>Roll'd and adhered the viscid wave;<br>With arms depending as he stood,<br>Each cuff capacious holds the flood;<br>From nose and chin's remotest end,<br>The tarry icicles descend;<br>Till all o'erspread, with colors gay,<br>He glitter'd to the western ray,<br>Like sleet-bound trees in wintry skies,<br>Or Lapland idol carved in ice.<br>And now the feather-bag display'd<br>Is waved in triumph o'er his head,<br>And clouds him o'er with feathers missive,<br>And down, upon the tar, adhesive:<br>Not Maia's son, with wings for ears,<br>Such plumage round his visage wears;<br>Nor Milton's six-wing'd angel gathers<br>Such superfluity of feathers.<br>Now all complete appears our 'Squire,<br>Like Gorgon or Chimæra dire;<br>Nor more could boast on Plato's plan<br>To rank among the race of man,<br>Or prove his claim to human nature,<br>As a two-legg'd, unfeather'd creature.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Then on the fatal cart, in state<br>They raised our grand Duumvirate.<br>And as at Rome a like committee,<br>Who found an owl within their city,<br>With solemn rites and grave processions<br>At every shrine perform'd lustrations;<br>And least infection might take place<br>From such grim fowl with feather'd face,<br>All Rome attends him through the street<br>In triumph to his country seat:<br>With like devotion all the choir<br>Paraded round our awful 'Squire;<br>In front the martial music comes<br>Of horns and fiddles, fifes and drums,<br>With jingling sound of carriage bells,<br>And treble creak of rusted wheels.<br>Behind, the croud, in lengthen'd row<br>With proud procession, closed the show.<br>And at fit periods every throat<br>Combined in universal shout;<br>And hail'd great Liberty in chorus,<br>Or bawl'd 'confusion to the Tories.'<br>Not louder storm the welkin braves<br>From clamors of conflicting waves;<br>Less dire in Lybian wilds the noise<br>When rav'ning lions lift their voice;<br>Or triumphs at town-meetings made,<br>On passing votes to regulate trade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Thus having borne them round the town,<br>Last at the pole they set them down;<br>And to the tavern take their way<br>To end in mirth the festal day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And now the Mob, dispersed and gone,<br>Left 'Squire and Constable alone.<br>The constable with rueful face<br>Lean'd sad and solemn o'er a brace;<br>And fast beside him, cheek by jowl,<br>Stuck 'Squire M'Fingal 'gainst the pole,<br>Glued by the tar t' his rear applied,<br>Like barnacle on vessel's side.<br>But though his body lack'd physician,<br>His spirit was in worse condition.<br>He found his fears of whips and ropes<br>By many a drachm outweigh'd his hopes.<br>As men in jail without mainprize<br>View every thing with other eyes,<br>And all goes wrong in church and state,<br>Seen through perspective of the grate:<br>So now M'Fingal's Second-sight<br>Beheld all things in gloomier light;<br>His visual nerve, well purged with tar,<br>Saw all the coming scenes of war.<br>As his prophetic soul grew stronger,<br>He found he could hold in no longer.<br>First from the pole, as fierce he shook,<br>His wig from pitchy durance broke,<br>His mouth unglued, his feathers flutter'd,<br>His tarr'd skirts crack'd, and thus he utter'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Ah, Mr. Constable, in vain<br>We strive 'gainst wind and tide and rain!<br>Behold my doom! this feathery omen<br>Portends what dismal times are coming.<br>Now future scenes, before my eyes,<br>And second-sighted forms arise.<br>I hear a voice, that calls away,<br>And cries 'The Whigs will win the day.'<br>My beck'ning Genius gives command,<br>And bids me fly the fatal land;<br>Where changing name and constitution,<br>Rebellion turns to Revolution,<br>While Loyalty, oppress'd, in tears,<br>Stands trembling for its neck and ears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>&quot;Go, summon all our brethren, greeting,<br>To muster at our usual meeting;<br>There my prophetic voice shall warn 'em<br>Of all things future that concern 'em,<br>And scenes disclose on which, my friend,<br>Their conduct and their lives depend.<br>There I--but first 'tis more of use,<br>From this vile pole to set me loose;<br>Then go with cautious steps and steady,<br>While I steer home and make all ready.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Trumbull">John Trumbull</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=424410" data-title="M'Fingal - Canto III de John Trumbull" data-description="Now warm with ministerial ire, Fierce sallied forth our loyal 'Squire, And on his striding steps attends His desperate clan of Tory friends. When sudden met his wrathful eye A pole ascending through the sky, Which numerous throngs of whiggish race..."></div> </div> </div>

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