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I won't humanely crush thy bowels out,

Lest thou shouldst eat the flies;
Nor will I roast thee, with a damned delight
Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see,

For there is One who might

One day roast me.

2.

Thou art welcome to a Rhymer sore perplext,

The subject of his verse;
There's many a one who on a better text

Perhaps might comment worse.
Then shrink not, old Free-Mason, from my view,
But quietly like me spin out the line;

Do thou thy work pursue,

As I will mine.

3.

Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways

Of Satan, Sire of lies;
Hell's huge black Spider, for mankind he lays

His toils, as thou for flies.
When Betty's busy eye runs round the room,
Woe to that nice geometry, if seen!

But where is He whose broom

The earth shall clean ?

4.

Spider! of old thy flimsy webs were thought –

And 'twas a likeness true

To emblem laws in which the weak are caught,

But which the strong break through;
And if a victim in thy toils is ta’en,
Like some poor client is that wretched fly;

I'll warrant thee thou’lt drain

His life-blood dry.

5.

And is not thy weak work like human schemes

And care on earth employed ? Such are young hopes and Love's delightful

dreams So easily destroyed; So does the Statesman, whilst the Avengers sleep, Self-deemed secure, his wiles in secret lay;

Soon shall destruction sweep

His work away.

6.

Thou busy laborer! one resemblance more

May yet the verse prolong;
For, Spider, thou art like the Poet poor,

Whom thou hast helped in song.
Both busily, our needful food to win,
We work, as Nature taught, with ceaseless pains :

Thy bowels thou dost spin,

I spin my brains.

WESTBURY, 1798.

THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM.

The rage of Babylon is roused,

The king puts forth his strength;

And Judah bends the bow,
And points her arrows for the coming war.

Her walls are firm, her gates are strong,

Her youth gird on the sword;

High are her chiefs in hope,
For soon will Egypt send the promised aid.

But who is he whose voice of woe

Is heard amid the streets ;

Whose ominous voice proclaims Her strength and arms and promised succors vain?

His meagre cheek is pale and sunk;

Wild is his hollow eye,

Yet awful is its glance;
And who could bear the anger of his frown?

PROPHET of God! in vain thy lips

Proclaim the wae to come;

In vain thy warning voice Summons her rulers timely to repent.

The Ethiop changes not his skin:

Impious and reckless still,

The rulers spurn thy voice;
And now the measure of their crimes is full.

For now around Jerusalem

The countless foes appear;

Far as the eye can reach
Spreads the wide horror of the circling siege.

Why is the warrior's cheek so pale?

Why droops the gallant youth,

Who late, in pride of heart,
Sharpened his javelin for the welcome war?

'Tis not for terror that his eye

Swells with the struggling woe:

Oh! he could bear his ills,
Or rush to death, and in the grave have peace.

His parents do not ask for food;

But they are weak with want:

His wife has given her babes
Her wretched pittance, she makes no complaint.

1

The consummating hour is come ;

Alas for Solyma!

How is she desolate,
She that was great among the nations, fallen!

1

And thou, thou miserable king!

Where is thy trusted flock,

Thy flock so beautiful ; Thy Father's throne, the temple of thy God?

Repentance brings not back the past;

It will not call again

Thy murdered sons to life,
Nor vision to those eyeless sockets more.

Thou wretched, childless, blind old man !

Heavy thy punishment;

Dreadful thy present woes ;
Alas! more dreadful thy remembered guilt.

WESTBURY, 1798.

THE DEATH OF WALLACE.

Joy, joy in London now! He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death; At length the traitor meets the traitor's doom ;

Joy, joy in London now !

He on a sledge is drawn, His strong right arm unweaponed and in chains, And garlanded around his helmless head

The laurel wreath of scorn.

They throng to view him now
Who in the field had fled before his sword;
Who at the name of Wallace once grew pale,

And faltered out a prayer.

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