Where are they now?--the Village asks with grief, What were their toils, their conquests, or their gains?-- Perhaps, they near some State-House beg relief, Perhaps, they sleep on Saratoga's plains; Doom'd not to live, their country to reproach For seven-years' pay transferr'd to Mammon's coach. Ye Guardians of your country and her laws! Since to the pen and press so much we owe Still bid them favour freedom's sacred cause, From this pure source, let streams unsullied flow; Hence, a new order grows on reason's plan, And turns the fierce barbarian into--man. Child of the earth, of rude materials fram'd, Man, always found a tyrant or a slave, Fond to be honour'd, valued, rich, or fam'd Roves o'er the earth, and subjugates the wave: Despots and kings this restless race may share,-- But knowledge only makes them worth your care! [48] Published in four installments in the _National Gazette_, beginning December 19, 1791. Issued in pamphlet form, together with "The Village Merchant," in 1794. Republished only in the edition of 1795, the text of which I have followed. SEVENTEEN HUNDRED AND NINETY-ONE[49] Great things have pass'd the last revolving year; France on a curious jaunt has seen her king go,-- Hush'd are the growlings of the Russian bear, Rebellion has broke loose in St. Domingo-- Sorry we are that Pompeys, Cæsars, Catos Are mostly found with Negroes and Mulattoes. Discord, we think, must always be the lot Of this poor world--nor is that discord vain, Since, if these feuds and fisty-cuffs were not, Full many an honest Type would starve--that's plain; Wars are their gain, whatever cause is found-- Empires--or Cats-skins brought from Nootka-sound. The Turks, poor fellows! have been sadly baisted-- And many a Christian despot stands, contriving Who next shall bleed--what country next be wasted-- This is the trade by which they get their living: From Prussian Frederick, this the general plan To Empress Kate--that burns the Rights of Man, The Pope (at Rome) is in a sweat, they tell us; Of freedom's pipe he cannot bear the music, And worst of all when Frenchmen blow the bellows, Enough almost (he thinks) to make a Jew sick: His Priesthood too, black, yellow, white, and grey, All think it best to keep--the good old way. Britain, (fame whispers) has unrigg'd her fleet-- Now tell us what the world will do for thunder?-- Battles, fire, murder, maiming, and defeat Are at an end when Englishmen knock under: Sulphur will now in harmless squibs be spent, Lightning will fall--full twenty five per cent. [49] I have found this only in the edition of 1795. LINES[50] Written on a Puncheon of Jamaica Spirits