The Duellist.[1]Book I.

(In Three Books.)          The clock struck twelve; o'er half the globe     Darkness had spread her pitchy robe:     Morpheus, his feet with velvet shod,     Treading as if in fear he trod,     Gentle as dews at even-tide,     Distill'd his poppies far and wide.     Ambition, who, when waking, dreams     Of mighty, but fantastic schemes,     Who, when asleep, ne'er knows that rest     With which the humbler soul is blest,     Was building castles in the air,     Goodly to look upon, and fair,     But on a bad foundation laid,     Doom'd at return of morn to fade.     Pale Study, by the taper's light,     Wearing away the watch of night,     Sat reading; but, with o'ercharged head,     Remember'd nothing that he read.     Starving 'midst plenty, with a face     Which might the court of Famine grace,     Ragged, and filthy to behold,     Gray Avarice nodded o'er his gold.     Jealousy, his quick eye half-closed,     With watchings worn, reluctant dozed;     And, mean Distrust not quite forgot,     Slumber'd as if he slumber'd not.     Stretch'd at his length on the bare ground,     His hardy offspring sleeping round,     Snored restless Labour; by his side     Lay Health, a coarse but comely bride.     Virtue, without the doctor's aid,     In the soft arms of Sleep was laid;     Whilst Vice, within the guilty breast,     Could not be physic'd into rest.     Thou bloody man! whose ruffian knife     Is drawn against thy neighbour's life,     And never scruples to descend     Into the bosom of a friend;     A firm, fast friend, by vice allied,     And to thy secret service tied,     In whom ten murders breed no awe,     If properly secured from law:     Thou man of lust! whom passion fires     To foulest deeds, whose hot desires     O'er honest bars with ease make way,     Whilst idiot beauty falls a prey,     And to indulge thy brutal flame     A Lucrece must be brought to shame;     Who dost, a brave, bold sinner, bear     Rank incest to the open air,     And rapes, full blown upon thy crown,     Enough to weigh a nation down:     Thou simular of lust! vain man,     Whose restless thoughts still form the plan     Of guilt, which, wither'd to the root,     Thy lifeless nerves can't execute,     Whilst in thy marrowless, dry bones     Desire without enjoyment groans:     Thou perjured wretch! whom falsehood clothes     E'en like a garment; who with oaths     Dost trifle, as with brokers, meant     To serve thy every vile intent,     In the day's broad and searching eye     Making God witness to a lie,     Blaspheming heaven and earth for pelf,     And hanging friends[2] to save thyself:     Thou son of Chance! whose glorious soul     On the four aces doom'd to roll,     Was never yet with Honour caught,     Nor on poor Virtue lost one thought;     Who dost thy wife, thy children set,     Thy all, upon a single bet,     Risking, the desperate stake to try,     Here and hereafter on a die;     Who, thy own private fortune lost,     Dost game on at thy country's cost,     And, grown expert in sharping rules,     First fool'd thyself, now prey'st on fools:     Thou noble gamester! whose high place     Gives too much credit to disgrace;     Who, with the motion of a die,     Dost make a mighty island fly--     The sums, I mean, of good French gold     For which a mighty island sold;     Who dost betray intelligence,     Abuse the dearest confidence,     And, private fortune to create,     Most falsely play the game of state;     Who dost within the Alley sport     Sums which might beggar a whole court,     And make us bankrupts all, if Care,     With good Earl Talbot,[3] was not there:     Thou daring infidel! whom pride     And sin have drawn from Reason's side;     Who, fearing his avengeful rod,     Dost wish not to believe a God;     Whose hope is founded on a plan     Which should distract the soul of man,     And make him curse his abject birth;     Whose hope is, once return'd to earth,     There to lie down, for worms a feast,     To rot and perish like a beast;     Who dost, of punishment afraid,     And by thy crimes a coward made,     To every generous soul a curse     Than Hell and all her torments worse,     When crawling to thy latter end,     Call on Destruction as a friend,     Choosing to crumble into dust     Rather than rise, though rise you must:     Thou hypocrite! who dost profane,     And take the patriot's name in vain;     Then most thy country's foe, when most     Of love and loyalty you boast;     Who, for the love of filthy gold,     Thy friend, thy king, thy God hast sold,     And, mocking the just claim of Hell,     Were bidders found, thyself wouldst sell:     Ye villains! of whatever name,     Whatever rank, to whom the claim     Of Hell is certain, on whose lids     That worm, which never dies, forbids     Sweet sleep to fall, come, and behold,     Whilst envy makes your blood run cold,     Behold, by pitiless Conscience led,     So Justice wills, that holy bed     Where Peace her full dominion keeps,     And Innocence with Holland sleeps.     Bid Terror, posting on the wind,     Affray the spirits of mankind;     Bid Earthquakes, heaving for a vent,     Rive their concealing continent,     And, forcing an untimely birth     Through the vast bowels of the earth,     Endeavour, in her monstrous womb,     At once all Nature to entomb;     Bid all that's horrible and dire,     All that man hates and fears, conspire     To make night hideous as they can,     Still is thy sleep, thou virtuous man!     Pure as the thoughts which in thy breast     Inhabit, and insure thy rest;     Still shall thy Ayliffe, taught, though late,     Thy friendly justice in his fate,     Turn'd to a guardian angel, spread     Sweet dreams of comfort round thy head.     Dark was the night, by Fate decreed     For the contrivance of a deed     More black than common, which might make     This land from her foundations shake,     Might tear up Freedom by the root,     Destroy a Wilkes, and fix a Bute.     Deep Horror held her wide domain;     The sky in sullen drops of rain     Forewept the morn, and through the air,     Which, opening, laid its bosom bare,     Loud thunders roll'd, and lightning stream'd;     The owl at Freedom's window scream'd,     The screech-owl, prophet dire, whose breath     Brings sickness, and whose note is death;     The churchyard teem'd, and from the tomb,     All sad and silent, through the gloom     The ghosts of men, in former times,     Whose public virtues were their crimes,     Indignant stalk'd; sorrow and rage     Blank'd their pale cheeks; in his own age     The prop of Freedom, Hampden there     Felt after death the generous care;     Sidney by grief from heaven was kept,     And for his brother patriot wept:     All friends of Liberty, when Fate     Prepared to shorten Wilkes's date,     Heaved, deeply hurt, the heartfelt groan,     And knew that wound to be their own.     Hail, Liberty! a glorious word,     In other countries scarcely heard,     Or heard but as a thing of course,     Without, or energy, or force:     Here felt, enjoy'd, adored, she springs,     Far, far beyond the reach of kings,     Fresh blooming from our mother Earth:     With pride and joy she owns her birth     Derived from us, and in return     Bids in our breasts her genius burn;     Bids us with all those blessings live     Which Liberty alone can give,     Or nobly with that spirit die     Which makes death more than victory.     Hail, those old patriots! on whose tongue     Persuasion in the senate hung,     Whilst they the sacred cause maintain'd.     Hail, those old chiefs! to honour train'd,     Who spread, when other methods fail'd,     War's bloody banner, and prevail'd.     Shall men like these unmention'd sleep     Promiscuous with the common heap,     And (Gratitude forbid the crime!)     Be carried down the stream of time     In shoals, unnoticed and forgot,     On Lethe's stream, like flags, to rot?     No--they shall live, and each fair name,     Recorded in the book of Fame,     Founded on Honour's basis, fast     As the round earth to ages last.     Some virtues vanish with our breath;     Virtue like this lives after death.     Old Time himself, his scythe thrown by,     Himself lost in eternity,     An everlasting crown shall twine     To make a Wilkes and Sidney join.     But should some slave-got villain dare     Chains for his country to prepare,     And, by his birth to slavery broke,     Make her, too, feel the galling yoke,     May he be evermore accursed,     Amongst bad men be rank'd the worst;     May he be still himself, and still     Go on in vice, and perfect ill;     May his broad crimes each day increase,     Till he can't live, nor die in peace;     May he be plunged so deep in shame,     That Satan mayn't endure his name,     And hear, scarce crawling on the earth,     His children curse him for their birth;     May Liberty, beyond the grave,     Ordain him to be still a slave,     Grant him what here he most requires,     And damn him with his own desires!     But should some villain, in support     And zeal for a despairing court,     Placing in craft his confidence,     And making honour a pretence     To do a deed of deepest shame,     Whilst filthy lucre is his aim;     Should such a wretch, with sword or knife,     Contrive to practise 'gainst the life     Of one who, honour'd through the land,     For Freedom made a glorious stand;     Whose chief, perhaps his only crime,     Is (if plain Truth at such a time     May dare her sentiments to tell)     That he his country loves too well:     May he--but words are all too weak     The feelings of my heart to speak--     May he--oh for a noble curse,     Which might his very marrow pierce!--     The general contempt engage,     And be the Martin of his age!