The Crisis. Группа авторов
Scurvy, in their Blood it reigns;
He who wou’d cure it, must exhaust their Veins.
Once against Rebels, ’twas your *Place to plead;
Your Mouth condemn’d, your Soul approv’d the Deed.
Whilst round your Heart sad Disappointmant hung,
Dissimulation oil’d your treach’rous Tongue.
A Murray then (your Brother too) was found
In Arms, in secret Trust; in Duty bound,
And Principle (like yours) to aid a Claim,
Which you affected with a Blush to name;
A Blush ill-acted;—to thy Ghostly pale,
(Index of Guilt) soft Nature lends no Veil.
No—She, my Lord, disdains to serve base Ends;
She’s “only just to Virtue and her Friends.”
On them She smiles, on CHATHAM’S Cheek she glows,
When injur’d Children are assail’d like Foes;
When Famine’s call’d to aid the coward-plan,
And North completes what Bute and You began.
Perish your Names!—your Thane in fear is fled,
With ev’ry Curse, but Scotland’s, on his Head;
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In Shade, but not (alas!) in Death enshrin’d,
Whilst you, his faithful Proxy, speak his Mind;
And (to weak George from soothing Flatt’ry dear)
Pour your Laird’s Poison in the Royal-ear.
Why do your treach’rous Actions shun the Light?
Why do Back-stairs feel Mansfield’s Steps at Night?
To George your Councils and yourself convey,
Fraught with Infection, in the face of Day.
Let not the royal Closet’s Whisper screen,
Your glorious Works; but let your Light be seen.
Conduct, avow, enforce your Patriot-plans,
Nor trust their Merits to Subaltern Clans.
Tho’ Bute absconds, yet aid your Joint-design,
Yourself, my Lord; and help to spring the Mine.
Whilst Grafton, Sandwich, Denbigh, North, stand forth,
And to astonish’d Ears, proclaim their Worth;
Whilst, with rank Nonsense, Suffolk, Pomfret, dare,
Without a Blush, to make Plebeians stare;
Why, when your Sov’reign’s pleas’d by Law to kill,
Step not you forth to guild the desp’rate Pill?
’Tis decent, sure, so pension’d, plac’d, and brib’d,
To recommend the Dose you have prescrib’d
But Fear, my Lord, mean, abject Fear, still gives
A Check—in you a lurking Traytor lives;
The worst of Traytors—you have Sense to see
Fair Freedom’s Charms, yet blast the Soul that’s Free.
Early and late, incessant in your Pains,
For brave America you forge vile Chains.
Yet meanly, in your House, or Court, take root,
When you should Speak, as Deputy to Bute.
He still lies Hid; perhaps, at *Clapham lurks,
Whilst You and Apsley carry on the Works.
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To grant a Nation’s Claim each House is loth,
But You have Representatives in both.
Strangely absurd!—yet this we know and see;
This Truth subdu’d your modest Member *Leigh.
The Man had Sense, and felt his own Disgrace,
How well an †Aston wou’d supply his Place!
So represented, with such Leaders too,
(North—George—obsequious to your Lordship’s Cue.)
This War against ourselves will soon be won,
Odious America be soon undone.
Remonstrances are vain, Bute won’t relax,
But sternly bids North lay another Tax.
The Tax of Death, by Bayonet and Ball;
But Famine is the hardest Tax of all.
From Scotland, could that Thought derive its Source?
Where is sharp Famine felt with greater Force?
In all the Horrors there the Fiend’s array’d;
There her shrunk Hand for ever chills the Blade.
There, with lank Sides, the meagre Cattle moan;
Their Keeper asks for Bread and gets a Stone.
From this distress Bute and yourself soon fled,
Yet pour it’s plagues upon a Nation’s head.
By vilest means, my Lord, you seek vile ends;
Thus are you “just to virtue and her friends.”
In all your strokes a master’s hand appears:
Stand forth—claim all your praise, and banish fears.
If Conscience dictates every ill you do,
Frankly expose the Knave you hide, to view.
Plebeians scorn—to gain your King’s applause,
Like base ‡De Burgo, fawn and wrest the Laws.
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Dispise what faithful History shall say;
Full in your Zenith now, enjoy your Day;
Tho’ in Times annals your foul Name shou’d rust,
Whilst Fame to Holt’s erects lasting bust.
He had no *Smythe; no bias he had shown,
But dragg’d Assassins from behind the Throne.
Guardian of England’s Laws he gave ’em sway,
And held them forth for Sovereigns to obey.
Against the People’s Rights he took no part,
But judg’d, and counsell’d, with an honest Heart.
Prerogative (unpension’d and unbrib’d)
He kept within the bounds that Law prescrb’d,
By Freedom’s side he firmly took his stand,
Yet held the Ballance with an equal Hand.
Of that fair Plant he cherish’d ev’ry Shoot,
And, with a Parent’s fondness, nurs’d the Root.
His Name, whilst Law endures, shall live in Praise;
Ashby and White, †no Mansfield can erase.
But you, my Lord, to Infamy still true,
Indulge your King’s Caprice in all you do.
If Citizens their humble Plaints express,
You