As men in jail without mainprize
View every thing with other eyes,
And all goes wrong in church and state,
Seen through perspective of the grate :
So now M'FINGAL'S Second-sight
Beheld all things in gloomier light;
His visual nerve, well purged with tar,
Saw all the coming scenes of war.
As his prophetic soul grew stronger,
He found he could hold in no longer.
First from the pole, as fierce he shook,
His wig from pitchy durance broke,
His mouth unglued, his feathers flutter'd,
His tarr'd skirts crack'd, and thus he utter'd.
Ah, Mr. Constable, in vain
We strive 'gainst wind and tide and rain!
Behold my doom! this feathery omen
Portends what dismal times are coming.
Now future scenes, before my eyes,
And second-sighted forms arise.
I hear a voice,* that calls away,
And cries 'The Whigs will win the day.'
* I hear a voice, you cannot hear,
That says, I must not stay→
My beck'ning Genius gives command,
And bids me fly the fatal land;
Where changing name and constitution,
Rebellion turns to Revolution,
While Loyalty, oppress'd, in tears,
Stands trembling for its neck and ears.
"Go, summon all our brethren, greeting,
To muster at our usual meeting;
There my prophetic voice shall warn 'em
Of all things future that concern 'em,
And scenes disclose on which, my friend,
Their conduct and their lives depend.
There I*-but first 'tis more of use,
From this vile pole to set me loose;
Then go with cautious steps and steady,
While I steer home and make all ready.
* Quos Ego-sed motos præstat componere fluctus.
Now Night came down, and rose full soon
That patroness of rogues, the Moon;
Beneath whose kind protecting ray,
Wolves, brute and human, prowl for prey.
The honest world all snored in chorus,
While owls and ghosts and thieves and Tories,
Whom erst the mid-day sun had awed,
Crept from their lurking holes abroad.
On cautious hinges, slow and stiller,
Wide oped the great M'FINGAL's cellar,*
Where safe from prying eyes, in cluster,
The Tory Pandemonium muster.
*Secret meetings of the Tories, in cellars and other lurking places, were frequent during the revolutionary war.
Their chiefs all sitting round descried are,
On kegs of ale and seats of cider ;*
When first M'FINGAL, dimly seen,
Rose solemn from the turnip-bin.†
Nor yet his form had wholly lost
Th' original brightness it could boast,‡
Nor less appear'd than Justice Quorum,
In feather'd majesty before 'em.
Adown his tar-streak'd visage, clear
Fell glistening fast th' indignant tear,
And thus his voice, in mournful wise,
Pursued the prologue of his sighs.
"Brethren and friends, the glorious band Of loyalty in rebel land!
* Panditur interea domus omnipotentis Olympi, Conciliumque vocat Divum pater atq; hominum Rex Sideream in sedem. Virgil.
In most of the country cellars in New-England, a bin is raised at one corner, about four feet high, to hold turnips and other vegetables. M'Fingal uses it here as a desk for a speaker.
- His form had not yet lost
All its original brightness, nor appear'd
Less than archangel ruin'd. Millon.
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