To the Royalist Unveiled

The sage who took the wrong sow by the ears,
And more than kingdoms claimed for Vermonteers;
Who, from twelve wigwams down to eight decreased,
Is now your prophet, and may serve for priest--
Ye, who embraced the democratic plan,
Yet with false tears beheld the wrongs of man--
To him apply--go--soothe him in distress,
To him fall prostrate--and to him confess.
When first that slave of slaves began to write,
Truth cursed his pen, and Reason took her flight:
Dullness on him her choicest opiates shed,
Black as his heart, and sleepy as his head.
Him on her soil Hibernia could not bear;
The viper sickened in that wholesome air,--
Then rushed abroad, a Jesuit, in disguise,
Flush, on the wings of malice, rage, and lies;
To this new world a nuisance and a pest,
To curse the worthy, and abuse the best.
Thou base born mass of insolence and dirt,
With all the will, but not the power to hurt;
Whose shallow brain each empty line reveals--
Art thou worth draggling at our chariot wheels?
Who, on the surface of a rugged ground,
Would stoop to trail your carcass round and round?--
No--like a Felon, hanged to after time,
Be one more victim to the "force of rhyme."
Waft us, ye powers, to some sequestered place,
Where never malice shewed its hateful face--
Remove us far from all the ruffian kind
(Baseness with insolence forever joined)
To some retreat of solitude and rest--
Nor shall another pang disturb the breast--
When thought returns--and one regrets to know,
He had to combat with a two-faced foe.