To give the gospel new editions, Or on the wings of folly fly The system of the world explain, Late, like Minerva, born and bred, Not from a Jove's, but scribbler's head, Round him much manuscript is spread, At length, matured the grand design, Meanwhile, from every distant seat, What though his wits could ne'er dispense One page of grammar, or of sense; What though his skull be cudgel-proof ' POOR A TIME-WORN BELLE. [From the Same.] No more the beaux confess her sway; And starts to view the alter'd face, At length her name each coxcomb cancels A careless figure half undress'd (The reader's wits may guess the rest); As though she'd been a twelvemonth married; She spends her breath, as years prevail, At this sad wicked world to rail, To slander all her sex impromptu, And wonder what the times will come to. M'FINGAL'S DOLE. [“ M'Fingal. A Modern Epic Poem." 1782.-The Poetical Works of John Trumbull. 1820.] M'FINGAL, rising at the word, Drew forth his old militia-sword; Thrice cried "King George," as erst in distress, Knights of romance invoked a mistress; And, brandishing the blade in air, Fierce through their thickest throng he press'd, (Who roll'd on either side in arch, Like Red Sea waves in Israel's march) But stood to brave the desp'rate blow; Our 'Squire on tiptoe rising fair Lifts high a noble stroke in air, Which hung not, but, like dreadful engines, But ah! in danger, with dishonor The sword perfidious fails its owner; That sword, which oft had stood its ground, By huge train-bands encircled round, Had won the day at many a trial, Of stones and clubs had braved th' alarms, Shrunk from these new Vulcanian arms. |