Classic Poem

Says Cato, why should Man be vain,
Since bounteous Heav'n prescribes his dates?
Or seek with so much fruitless pain
To form these independent States?
Can striped Flags with Stars bestrown,
Or naked Wretches dragg'd to War,
Can upstart Honors e'er atone
The pangs of Guilt or fierce Despair?

The Merchant's plan, the Farmer's toil,
That rais'd our Wealth and Fame so high
And made our Plains like Britain's smile,
In Dust without Distinction lie.
Go, search for Gold the public Chest,
Where once abundance heap'd her store—
Our Wealth is Paper at the best;
And all its Credit is no more.

What tho' the Frenchman crowns the scene,
And we miscall him “Mankind's Friend;”
Not all his pow'r can Rebels screen—
Rebellion's drawing near her end.
Shot like a Meteor thro' the Skies
It spread awhile a baleful Train:
But now, by Jove's command it dies
And melts to common Air again.