Short Poems

Thou makest thy self more learned then thy betters,
And brag'st thou knowst Greek, Hebrew, Latin letters.
Thou hast them in thy forehead, and thy hand,
As if th'hadst all the tongues at thy command;
For the executioner has made thee more
Letter'd by far then thou wert ere before.

Thou sent'st me wine, I'd too much wine before;
Send thirst if thou would'st send to please me more.

What various griefs within my breast do grow?
I burn, yet from my flames my tears do flow
I'm Nile , and Etna both together grown,
For the same grief does both enflame and drown.
O let my tears, make my strong flames expire,
Or let my tears be drunk up by my fire.

Trav'ller, thou lookst for old Rome in the new,
And yet in Rome , thou nought of Rome canst view
Behold the frame of walls, dis-joynted stone,
And the vast Theater, that's overthrown;
Lo here's Romes carkass still; thou may'st behold
How the new Rome is threatned by the old
Learn hence the power of fate, fix'd things decay,
But that that's alwayes toss'd and mov'd, does stay.

Mr Thomas Campbell,
Prickly as a bramble,
Sang of the Pleasures of Hope;
Men gave him a pension,
Of his glory made mention: —
Now out on the ramble
Without scheme or intention,
Drink brandy, and sulkily mope!

Thirty-nine English Articles,
Ye wondrous little particles,
Did God shape his Universe really by you ?
In that case, I swear it,
And solemnly declare it,
This logic of M[orri]s's is true.

Priest-ridden, wife-ridden, plague-ridden,
Who escapes his lot?
Bearing, forbearing, paying, obeying,
Will ye, will ye not.
Child-ridden, tremble at my Doll's pouting:
Fortune, spare me that!

The Hildebrands, the Philips and the Borgias
Where are they now? Behind the scene; mute as
The millions whom they butchered in their rage.
Hard task they had, poor men: what was their wage?
From God, we know not, but may dread the worst;
From man, a grave and memory forever curst:
Who worships self a foolish thought has ween'd,
Must offer all , and find his God — a Fiend.

There dwelt a Sage at Apple Slump
Whose dinner never made him plump;
Give him carrots, potatoes, squash, parsnips, and peas,
And some boiled macaroni without any cheese,
And a plate of raw apples to hold on his knees,
And a glass of sweet cider, to wash down all these;
And he'd prate of the Spirit as long as you'd please,
This airy Sage of Apple Slump!

Goodnight, Sweetheart, goodnight —
The stars are shining bright,
The snow is turning white,
Dim is the failing light,
Fast falls the glooming night, —
All right!
Sleep tight!