Classic Poem

WRITTEN AT SAINT ANN'S HILL .

Scarce had sleep my eyes o'erspread,
Ere Alecto sought my bed;
In her left hand a torch she shook,
And in her right led J—n H—ne T—ke.

 O thou! who well deserv'st the bays,
Teach him, she cried, Sedition's lays—
She said, and left us; I, poor fool,
Began the wily priest to school;
Taught him how M—ra sung of lights
Blown out by troops o'stormy nights;
How E—sk—e, borne on rapture's wings,
At clubs and taverns sweetly sings
Of self —while yawning Whigs attend—
Self first, last, midst, and without end!
How B—df—d piped, ill-fated Bard!
Half drown'd, in empty Palace-yard:
How L—sd—ne, nature's simple child,
At B—w—d trills his wood-notes wild—
How these and more (a phrensied choir)
Sweep with bold hand Confusion's lyre,
Till madding crowds around them storm
“F OR ONE GRAND RADICAL R EFORM !”

 T—ke stood silent for a while,
Listening with sarcastic smile;
Then in verse of calmest flow,
Sung of treasons, deep and low:
Of rapine, prisons, scaffolds, blood,
Of war against the great and good;
Of Venice, and of Genoa's doom,
And fall of unoffending Rome:
Of monarchs from their station hurl'd,
And one waste desolated world.

 Charm'd by the magic of his tongue,
I lost the strains I lately sung,
While those he taught, remain impress'd
For ever on my faithful breast.