Classic Poem

As at the Shakspeare Tavern dining,
 O'er the well replenish'd board
Patriotic Chiefs reclining,
 Quick and large libations pour'd;
While, in fancy, great and glorious,
 'Midst the Democratic storm,
Fox's Crew, with shout victorious,
 Drank to Radical Reform .

Sudden up the staircase sounding,
 Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;
Then, each guest with fear confounding,
 A grim train of Ghosts appear'd:
Each a head with anguish gasping,
 (Himself a trunk deform'd with gore)
In his hand, terrific, clasping,
 Stalk'd across the wine-stain'd floor.

On them gleam'd the lamp's blue lustre,
 When stern Brissot's grizly shade
His sad bands was seen to muster,
 And his bleeding troops array'd.
Through the drunken crowd he hied him,
 Where the Chieftam sate enthroned,
There, his shadowy trunks beside him,
 Thus in threatening accents groan'd.

“Heed, oh heed our fatal story,
 “(I am Brissot's injured Ghost,)
“You who hope to purchase glory
 “In that field where I was lost!
“Though dread Pitt's expected ruin
 “Now your soul with triumph cheers,
“When you think on our undoing,
 “You will mix your hopes with fears.

“See these helpless headless Spectres
 “Wandering through the midnight gloom;
“Mark-their Jacobinic Leetures
 “Echoing from the silent tomb.
“These, thy soul with terror filling,
 “Once were Patriots fierce and bold!”—
(Each his head with gore distilling
 Shakes, the whilst his tale is told.)

“Some, from that dread engine's carving,
 “In vain contrived their heads to save—
“See Barbaroux and Petion starving
 “In the Languedocian Cave!
“See in a higgler's hamper buckled
 “How Louvet's soaring spirit lay!
“How virtuous Roland, hapless cuckold,
 “Blew, what brains he had, away.

“How beneath the power of Marat
 “Condorcet, blaspheming, fell,
“Begg'd some laudanum of Garat,
 “Drank;—and slept,—to wake in hell!
“Oh that, with worthier souls uniting,
 “I in my Country's cause had shone!
“Had died my Sovereign's battle fighting,
 “Or nobly propt his sinking throne!—

“But hold!—I scent the gales of morning—
 “Covent-Garden's clock strikes One!
“Heed, oh heed my earnest warning,
 “Ere England is, like France, undone!
“To Saint Stephen's quick repairing,
 “Your dissembled Mama end;
“And your errors past, forswearing,
 “Stand at length your Country's Friend!”