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,[197] 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. [196] This poem appeared September 25, 1782. The laureate of the _Independent Gazetteer_, after his farewell on September 7, was silent until October 15, when he produced the following: "STANZAS addressed to _little_ FR--N--U, Poetaster to the _Skunk-scented_ association, and successful imitator of STERNHOLD and HOPKINS, of _poetical_ memory; in humble imitation of _his own_ doggerel. "Fr--n--u, great man! 'tis thee I sing, And to thy shrine just incense bring The attribute of praise; To thee, who scorn'd all common rules, Supreme of dunces, chief of fools, I dedicate my lays. "Sternhold is dead! What though he be? Another Sternhold now in thee Beotia's sons explore; Like this, thy mind is clear and bright, Transparent as the darkest night, When angry tempests roar. "Thy verse, but ah! my powers are vain, To tell the wonders of thy brain Where mists of dullness sit; Cimmerian darkness round thy head, It's sable mantle long hath spread, To veil thy wooden wit. "Thy satire, mystic type of lead, Keen as a dart without a head, And vigorous as age; 'Twould almost make a mill-stone cry To have thy muse its enemy, When cloathed in her rage.