But stay! methinks in statelier measure-- A more companionable pleasure-- I see thy steps the mighty Tread Mill trace, (The subject of my song Delay'd however long,) And some of thine own race, To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along. There with thee go, Link'd in like sentence, With regulated pace and footing slow, Each old acquaintance, Rogue--harlot--thief--that live to future ages; Through many a labour'd tome, Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages. Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home! Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack, From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack. Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags; Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags, There points to Amy, treading equal chimes, The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes. V Incompetent my song to raise To its just height thy praise, Great Mill! That by thy motion proper (No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill) Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will, Turn'st out men's consciences, That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet As flower from purest wheat, Into thy hopper. All reformation short of thee but nonsense is, Or human, or divine. VI Compared with thee, What are the labours of that Jumping Sect, Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect? Thou dost not bump, Or jump, But _walk_ men into virtue; betwixt crime And slow repentance giving breathing time, And leisure to be good; Instructing with discretion demi-reps How to direct their steps. VII Thou best Philosopher made out of wood! Not that which framed the tub, Where sate the Cynic cub, With nothing in his bosom sympathetic; But from those groves derived, I deem, Where Plato nursed his dream Of immortality; Seeing that clearly Thy system all is merely Peripatetic. Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give Of how to live With temperance, sobriety, morality, (A new art,) That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds, Each Tyro now proceeds A "Walking Stewart!" EPICEDIUM GOING OR GONE (1827) I Fine merry franions, Wanton companions, My days are ev'n banyans With thinking upon ye; How Death, that last stinger, Finis-writer, end-bringer, Has laid his chill finger, Or is laying on ye. II