Though past events are hourly read, The various labours of the dead, In vain their story we recall, The rise of empires, or the fall; Our modern men, a busy crew, Must, in their turn, have something new. By moralists we have been told That "Time himself in time grows old; "The seasons change, the moons decay, "The sun shines weaker every day, "Justice is from the world withdrawn, "Virtue and friendship almost gone, "Religion fails (the clergy shew) "And man, alas, must vanish too." Let others such opinions hold, (Since grumbling has been always old;) All Nature must decay, 'tis true, But Nature shall her face renew, Her travels in a circle make, Freeze but to thaw, sleep but to wake. Die but to live, and live to die, In summer smile, in autumn sigh, Resume the garb that once she wore, Repeat the words she said before, Bow down with age, or, fresh and gay, Change, only to prevent decay. As up and down, with weary feet, I travel each fatiguing street, Meeting the frowns of party men, Foes to the freedom of the pen, And to your doors our sheets convey-- I sometimes think I hear you say, "Ah, were it not for what he brings, (This messenger of many things) We should be in a sorry plight; The wars of Europe out of sight, No paragraphs of home affairs To tell us how the fabric wears Which Freedom built on Virtue's plan, And Virtue only can maintain." But something further you pretend,-- From want of money, heaven defend! Leave that to those who sleep in sheds, Or on the pavement make their beds, Who clean the streets, or carry news, Repair old coats, or cobble shoes-- Of every ill with which we're curs'd This want of money is the worst: This was the curse that fell on Cain, The vengeance for a brother slain: For this he quit his native sod, Retreated to the land of Nod, And, in the torture of despair, Turn'd poet, pimp, or newsman there-- Divines have labour'd in the dark To find the meaning of his mark: How many idle things they wrote-- 'Twas nothing but a ragged coat. Should money, now, be scarce with you, With me, alas, 'tis nothing new! We news-men always are in need, (So Beer and Bacchus have decreed) And still your bounty shall implore Till--printing presses are no more!-- Did we not conjure up our strain The year might come and go again, Seasons advance, and moons decay, And life itself make haste away, And news-men only vex their brains To have their labour for their pains-- Such usage I may find, 'tis true, But then it would be--something new! [374] I have not been able to find the paper which first used these New Year's verses. The 1788 edition gave them the title "New Year's Verses for 1788. [Supposed to be written by the Printer's lad, who supplies the customers with his weekly paper.]" Text from the edition of 1795. ON THE PROSPECT OF A REVOLUTION IN FRANCE[375]