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The story that we follow, says, the man
Rubb'd down this ass, and took to his first plan;
Walk'd to the fair and sold him, got his price,
And gave his son this pertinent advice:
"Let talkers talk, stick thou to what is best;
To think of pleasing all is all a jest."
ON THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND.
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
O sacred Truth, thy triumph ceased a while,
When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars
Her whiskered pandours, and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Pealed her loud drum, and twangod her trumpet horn;
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland—and to man.
Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd,
Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid,—
"O Heavens," he cried, "my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high to shield the bravo?
Yet, though destruction sweep theso lovely plains,
Rise, fellow men, our country yet remains;
By that dread name we wave the sword on high,
And swear for her to live—with her to die."
He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed,
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed:
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form.
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm.
