TO SANTONE SAMUEL

The Millennial Prophet, on his System of Universal Pacification

With aspect wild, in ranting strain You bring the brilliant period near, When monarchy will close her reign And wars and warriors disappear; The lion and the lamb will stray, And, social, walk the woodland way.

I fear, with superficial view You contemplate dame nature's plan:-- She various forms of being drew, And made the common tryant--man: She form'd them all with wise design, Distinguish'd each, and drew the line.

Observe the lion's visage bold His iron tooth, his murderous claw, His aspect cast in anger's mould; The strength of steel is in his paw: Could he be meant with lambs to stray Or feed along the woodland way?

Since first his race on earth began War was his trade and war will be: And when he quits that ancient plan With milder natures to agree, He will be changed to something new And have some other part to do.

One system see through all this frame, Apparent discord still prevails; The forest yields to active flame, The ocean swells with stormy gales; No season did the G.o.d decree When leagued in friendship these should be.

And do you think that human kind Can shun the all-pervading law-- That pa.s.sion's slave we ever find-- Who discord from their nature draw:-- Ere discord can from man depart He must a.s.sume a different heart.

Yet in the slow advance of things A time may come our race may rise, By reason's aid to stretch their wings, And see the light with other eyes; And when the ancient mist is pa.s.s'd; To find their nature changed at last,

The sun himself, the powers ordain, Should in no perfect circle stray; He shuns the equatorial plane, Prefers an odd serpentine way, And lessens yearly, sophists prove, His angle in the voids above.

When moving in his ancient line, And no oblique ecliptic near, With some new influence he may shine But you and I will not be here To see the lion shed his teeth Or kings forget the trade of death.

ODE XI[141]

TO THE PHILADELPHIA DOCTORS

"And the Angel Michael disputed with the Devil about the body of Moses."--_Ancient History._

"To bleed or not to bleed--that is the question!

Whether 'tis better in our beds to suffer The slights and snufflings of outrageous doctors, Or by the Lancet--quit them."

In ancient days divines, in dismal humour, With disputation kept the presses going; Wrangled about some wonderous mighty things The difference "'twixt a shadow and a shade,"

And scribbled much of "way of man with maid."

At length, as fades the crown Their bludgeons they lay down; And you, wise doctors, take the wrangle up, Each cursing all who will not drink his cup.

Ah, Philadelphians! still to knaves a prey, Take your old philosophic way; When from the native spring you seiz'd your draught, Health bloom'd on every face, and all was gay-- Dejection was remote--and Nature laugh'd.

A question now, of mighty weight is put, Whether, to bleed a man is best, or not, When scarce three drops (or not one drop) remains In the poor devil's veins!--

Well! you decide, who are in Galen read-- Take Boorhaave's, if you please--whatever system-- (Why are men such that doctors can enlist 'em?) Whether your methods be the right or wrong, And man's existence shorten or prolong, We feverish fellows, must be--put to bed.

The secret has leak'd out--be cautious doctors (The whole shall be disclos'd in room with lock'd doors) Old women, with their simple herbs and teas (And asking hardly two-pence for their fees) Disarm this dreadful epidemic fever; Make it as tame and innocent, (Whether home-bred or from West Indies sent) As Continental soldier, turn'd to Weaver.

ODE XII[142]

THE CROWS AND THE CARRION

A Medical Story

If Ephraim on his bed complains Of feverish pulse and boiling veins, And throbs and pulses in his brains,

Then round him flock a ghastly crew Of doctors old and doctors new, And doctors, some--the Lord knows who.

Hoping the men had learned their trade, Poor Ephraim begs them for their aid, And promises they shall be paid.

Each quotes some book, by way of sham, Or reads some text from Sydenham, Which some approve, and some condemn.

At once he hears a barbarous noise, Like that from herds of butchers' boys, That ever hope of life destroys.

He promises all bills to pay, But they proceed in angry fray-- Poor Ephraim frets--and well he may.

Each looks at each with vengeful eyes, As if contending for a prize He wants his share--when Ephraim dies.

One talks of cure by Calomel; But his wise brother, Sydrophel, Swears, 'tis the readiest way to h.e.l.l.

While one the lancet recommends, Another for a blister sends, And each his every cure defends.

Weary of all they have to say, At last the patient faints away: Poor Ephraim swoons--and well he may.

In Fancy's dreams, he thinks he roams In realms where doctor Satan foams, With Sydrophels and Curry-combs.

Revived at length, he begs release, And whines, "Do let your quarrels cease, Do, doctors, let me die in peace.

"Oh! had I sent for doctress Nan, Or anything but cruel man, To put me on my legs again:

"She, with her cooling tamarind tea, At least would not have murdered me-- Come! if you love me, do agree.

"She would have held my dizzy head-- She would have something to me read-- Or would have somewhat cheering said.

"Good heavens! you cannot all be right-- O do not scratch!--O do not bite!-- Good doctors, do not, do not fight!"--

Here they began a louder fray-- Oh! Ephraim's dead!--to them all play-- Poor Ephraim dies!--and well he may.

ODE XIII[143]

A Soldier should be made of Sterner Stuff

ON DEBORAH GANNET

The American heroine, who on Tuesday last presented a pet.i.tion to Congress for a pension, in consideration of services rendered during the whole of the late war, in the character of a common follower in the regular armies of America

Ye congress men and men of weight, Who fill the public chairs, And many a favor have conferr'd On some, unknown to Mars; And ye, who hold the post of fame, The helmsmen of our great affairs, Afford a calm, attentive ear To her who handled sword and spear, A heroine in a bold career, a.s.sist a war-worn dame.

With the same vigorous soul inspired As Joan of Arc, of old, With zeal against the Briton fired, Her spirit warm and bold, She march'd to face her country's foes Disguised in male attire: Where'er they prowl'd through field or town With steady step she follow'd on; Resolved the conflict to sustain, She met them on the hill, the plain, And hostile to the English reign, She hurl'd the blasting fire.

Now for such generous toils endured, Her day of warfare done, In life's decline at length reward This faithful amazon: She asks no thousands at your hands, Though mark'd with many a scar; She asks no share of indian lands, Though lands you have to spare:

But something in the wane of days To make her snug, and keep her warm, A cottage, and the cheery blaze, To shield her from the storm; And something to the pocket too, Your bounty might afford, Of her, who did our foes pursue With bayonet, gun, and sword.