To a Writer Who Subscribes Himself "A Foe to Tyrants."

When round the barque the howling tempest raves, Toss'd in the conflict of a thousand waves, The lubber landsmen weep, complain and sigh, And on the pilot's skill, or heaven rely, Lurk in their holds, astonish'd and aghast, Dreading the moment that must be their last— The tempest o'er—their terror also ceases, And up they come and show their shameless faces, At once grow brave, and tell the pilot too, "He did no more than they themselves could do." "A FOE TO TYRANTS!"—One thy heart restores— There is a Tyrant that thy soul adores, And every stupid line too plainly shows Your heart is hostile to that tyrant's foes. WHAT mighty malice urg'd this Genius dull With CHURCHILL's wreathes to shade his barren scull? So utter darkness union claims with light, So oil and water in one mass unite: No more thy rage in borrow'd rhimes repeat; Sneak into prose—the dunce's last retreat! REED's patriot fame to distant times shall last, When these base reptiles to the dogs are cast, Or, when Oblivion spreads her dreary wings, Lost in the lumber of forgotten things, And none shall ask, nor wish to know, nor care Who—what their names—or when they liv'd, or where.