To Friend Jonathan

Friend Jonathan! for friend thou art,
Do prythee take now in good part
Lines the first steamer shall waft o'-er.
Sorry am I to hear the Blacks
Still bear your ensign on their backs;
The stripes they suffer make me sore.
So! they must all be given up
To drain again the bitter cup.
Better, far better, gold should come
From Pennsylvanian wide-awakes,
Ubiquitarian rattlesnakes,
Or, pet of royalty, Tom Thumb.
Another region rolls it down,
Where soon will rise its hundredth town:
The wide Pacifick now is thine.
With power and riches be content;
More, more than either, God hath sent . .
A man is better than a mine.
Scarce half a century hath past
Ere closed the tomb upon your last,
The man that built the western world:
When gamblers, drunkards, madmen rose,
He wrencht the sword from all such foes
And crusht them with the iron they hurl'd.
Beware of wrong. The brave are true:
The tree of Freedom never grew
Where Fraud and Falsehood sow'd their salt.
Hast thou not seen it stuck one day
In the loose soil, and swept away
The next, amid the blind and halt,
Who danced like maniacs round about?
The noisiest, foulest, rabble-rout!
Earth spurns them from her, half-afraid.
Slaves they will ever be, and shou'd,
Drunken with every neighbour's blood,
By every chief they arm betray'd.