Classic Poem

The moon hangs lightly on yon western hill;
And now it gives a parting look, like one
Who sadly leaves the guilty. You and I
Must watch, when all is dark, and steal along
By these lone trees, and wait for plunder. — Hush!
I hear the coming of some luckless wheel,
Bearing we know not what — perhaps the wealth
Torn from the needy, to be hoarded up
By those who only count it; and perhaps
The spendthrift's losses, or the gambler's gains,
The thriving merchant's rich remittances,
Or the small trifle some poor serving girl
Sends to her poorer parents. But come on —
Be cautious. — There — 'tis done; and now away,
With breath drawn in, and noiseless step, to seek
The darkness that befits so dark a deed.
Now strike your light. — Ye powers that look upon us;
What have we here? Whigs, Sentinels, Gazettes,
Heralds, and Posts, and Couriers — Mercuries,
Recorders, Advertisers, and Intelligencers —
Advocates and Auroras. — There, what's that!
That's — a Price Current.
I do venerate
The man, who rolls the smooth and silky sheet
Upon the well cut copper. I respect
The worthier names of those who sign bank bills;
And, though no literary man, I love
To read their short and pithy sentences.
But I hate types and printers — and the gang
Of editors and scribblers. Their remarks,
Essays, songs, paragraphs and prophecies,
I utterly detest. And these , particularly,
Are just the meanest and most rascally,
" Stale and unprofitable " publications,
I ever read in my life.