The Sailor, toss'd on stormy seas,
Implores his patron-god for ease
When Luna hides her paler blaze,
And stars, obscurely, dart their rays:
For ease the Yankee, fierce in war,
His stores of vengeance points afar:
For ease, the toiling Dutchman sighs,
Which gold, nor gems, nor purple buys!
No treasur'd hoards, from India trade,
No doctor's, or the lawyer's aid
Can ease the tumults of the mind,
Or cares to gilded roofs assign'd.
The end of life he, best, completes
Whose board is spread with frugal treats,
Whose sleep no fears, no thirst of gain,
Beneath his homely shed, restrain.
Why, then, with wasting cares engage,
Weak reptiles of so frail an age—
Why, thus, to far-off climates run,
And lands beneath another sun?
For, though to China's coasts we roam,
Ourselves we ne'er can leave at home:
Care, swift as deer—as tempests strong,
Ascends the prow, and sails along.
The mind that keeps an even state,
And all the future leaves to fate,
In every ill shall pleasure share,
As every pleasure has it's care.
Fate early seal'd Montgomery's doom,
In youth brave Laurens found a tomb;
While Arnold spends in peace and pride
The years, that heaven to them denied.
A host of votes are at your call;
A seat, perhaps, in Congress-Hall;
And vestments, soak'd in Stygian dye,
Where'er you go, alarm the eye:
On me, a poor and small domain,
With something of a poet's vein
The muse bestow'd—and share of pride
To spurn a scoundrel from my side.