For me no more the flaming press shall teem, Nor busy printers ply their evening care; No patriots flock to propagate my theme, Nor lick my feet the ill-got wreath to share. The fulsome strain of incense-breathing puff, The _snuffman_ bawling to the throng misled; Cobbett’s foul Register, nor all the stuff Of _weekly_ scribes, can raise my drooping head. Oft did the thoughtless to their judgments yield, Their railings oft disloyal rage provoke; How jocund each his secret soul reveal’d, How laugh’d the crowd at ev’ry hackney’d joke Now you, ye loyal, fix on them the fault, If memory to my name no trophies raise Where in the ample page, with zeal unbought, The pen historic gives the meed of praise. Can golden box,[18] though worth a hundred pounds, Back to poor Burdett bring his forfeit fame? Can honour’s voice now on his side be found, Or flattery shield him from contempt and shame? The boast of popularity’s short hour, And all that faction gains by means most base, Await alike exposure, dreaded power! The paths of folly lead but to disgrace. Yes; still my name to rescue from neglect, Some frail memorial that on bookstalls lie, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d, Implore the passing tribute of a sigh. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, Such pleasing transient laurels e’er resign’d, Left his proud height, the idol of a day, Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind? On some frail prop sedition still relies, Some _pious souls_ its frustrate arm admires, E’en from the grave its fetid stench will rise, E’en in its ashes live its wonted fires. For ye, who mindful of my honours dead, Do in your lines my hapless tale relate, If by kind feeling to your office led, Some crazy patriot shall inquire my fate, Ah, woe is me! some wicked wit will tell, “Oft have we seen him, ere the evening fall, Brushing with hasty steps along Pall Mall, To meet Lloyd Wardle at the House’s call. “There to the nodding members, luckless wights! In hackney’d strains, till midnight would he preach ’Bout Magna Charta, and the Bill of Rights, And prate of things far, far, beyond his reach. “To prison sent, he swore they us’d him ill, The _room_[19] was powerless, as all should see. The trial came, and British Judges still Refused to change the House’s just decree. “And now with judgment due, in sad dismay, He sees himself consign’d to public scorn; Approach and read, if thou can’st read, the lay Penn’d in the _Post_, to Jacobins a thorn; EPITAPH. “Here hides his head, now humbled to the earth, A man to John Horne and his Faction known; Fair talents never smil’d upon his birth, And Disappointment mark’d him for her own.