The Group Part 3

BEAU TRUMPS.

When first I enter'd on the public stage My country groan'd beneath base Brundo's hand, Virtue look'd fair and beckon'd to her lure, Thro' truth's bright mirror I beheld her charms And wish'd to tread the patriotic path And wear the laurels that adorn his fame; I walk'd a while and tasted solid peace With Ca.s.sius, Rusticus, and good Hortensius, And many more, whose names will be rever'd When you, and I, and all the venal herd, Weigh'd in Nemesis, just impartial scale, Are mark'd with infamy, till time blot out And in oblivion sink our hated names.

But 'twas a poor unprofitable path, Nought to be gain'd, save solid peace of mind, No pensions, place or t.i.tle there I found; I saw Rapatio's arts had struck so deep And giv'n his country such a fatal wound, None but his foes promotion could expect; I trim'd, and pimp'd, and veer'd, and wav'ring stood, But half resolv'd to shew myself a knave, Till the Arch Traitor prowling round for aid Saw my suspense and bade me doubt no more;-- He gently bow'd, and smiling took my hand, And whispering softly in my list'ning ear, Shew'd me my name among his chosen band, And laugh'd at virtue dignifi'd by fools, Clear'd all my doubts, and bade me persevere In spite of the restraints, or hourly checks Of wounded friendship, and a goaded mind, Or all the sacred ties of truth and honour.

COLLATERALIS.

Come, 'mongst ourselves we'll e'en speak out the truth.

Can you suppose there yet is such a dupe As still believes that wretch an honest man?

The later strokes of his serpentine brain Outvie the arts of Machiavel himself, His Borgian model here is realiz'd And the stale tricks of politicians play'd Beneath a vizard fair---- ----Drawn from the heav'nly form Of blest religion weeping o'er the land For virtue fall'n, and for freedom lost.

BEAU TRUMPS.

I think with you---- ----unparalleled his effront'ry, When by chican'ry and specious art, 'Midst the distress in which he'd brought the city, He found a few (by artifice and cunning, By much industry of his wily friend The false Philanthrop----sly undermining tool, Who with the Syren's voice---- Deals daily round the poison of his tongue) To speak him fair--and overlook his guilt.

They by reiterated promise made To stand his friend at Britain's mighty court, And vindicate his native injur'd land, Lent him their names to sanctify his deeds.

But mark the traitor----his high crimes gloss'd o'er Conceals the tender feelings of the man, The social ties that bind the human heart; He strikes a bargain with his country's foes, And joins to wrap America in flames.

Yet with feign'd pity, and Satanic grin, As if more deep to fix the keen insult, Or make his life a farce still more complete, He sends a groan across the broad Atlantic, And with a phiz of Crocodilian stamp, Can weep, and wreathe, still hoping to deceive, He cries the gath'ring clouds hang thick about her, But laughs within----then sobs---- ----Alas! my country?

HUM HUMBUG.

Why so severe, or why exclaim at all, Against the man who made thee what thou art?

BEAU TRUMPS.

I know his guilt,--I ever knew the man, Thy father knew him e'er we trod the stage; I only speak to such as know him well; Abroad I tell the world he is a saint, But as for int'rest I betray'd my own With the same views, I rank'd among his friends: But my ambition sighs for something more.

What merits has Sir Sparrow of his own, And yet a feather graces the fool's cap: Which did he wear for what himself achiev'd, 'Twould stamp some honour on his latest heir---- But I'll suspend my murm'ring care awhile; Come, t' other gla.s.s----and try our luck at Loo, And if before the dawn your gold I win, Or e'er bright Phoebus does his course begin, The eastern breeze from Britain's hostile sh.o.r.e Should waft her lofty floating towers o'er, Whose waving pendants sweep the wat'ry main, Dip their proud beaks and dance towards the plain, The destin'd plains of slaughter and distress, Laden with troops from Hanover and Hess, It would invigorate my sinking soul, For then the continent we might control; Not all the millions that she vainly boasts Can cope with Veteran Barbarian hosts;---- But the brave sons of Albion's warlike race, Their arms, and honours, never can disgrace, Or draw their swords in such a hated cause, In blood to seal a N----'s oppressive laws, They'll spurn the service;----Britons must recoil, And shew themselves the natives of an isle Who sought for freedom, in the worst of times Produc'd her Hampdens, Fairfaxes, and Pyms.

But if by carnage we should win the game, Perhaps by my abilities and fame: I might attain a splendid glitt'ring car, And mount aloft, and sail in liquid air.

Like Phaeton, I'd then out-strip the wind, And leave my low compet.i.tors behind.

_Finis._