LINES, &c.
[]By THOMAS PAINE,
THE Rain pours down, the City looks forlorn,
And gloomy ſubjects ſuit the howling morn,
Cloſe by my ſire, with door and window faſt,
And ſafely ſhelter'd from the driving blaſt,
To gayer thoughts, I bid a days adieu,
To ſpend a ſcene of ſolitude with you.
So oft has black Revenge engros'd the care,
Of all the leiſure hours man finds to ſpare;
So oft has guilt in all her thouſand dens,
Call'd for the vengeance of chaſtiſing Pens;
That while, I fain would eaſe my heart on you,
No thought is left untold, no paſſion new.
From flight to flight the mental path appears,
Worn with the ſteps of near ſix thouſand years,
And fill [...]d througout with every ſcene of pain.
From CAIN to G*****, and back from G***** to CAIN.
Alike in cruelty, alike in hate,
In guilt alike, but more alike in fate,
Both curs'd ſupremely for the blood they drew,
Each from the riſing world, while each was new.
Go ſecond CAIN, true likeneſs of the firſt,
And ſtrew thy blaſted head with homely duſt
In aſhes ſit—in wretched ſack-cloth weep
And with unpitied ſorrows ceaſe to ſlee [...],
Go haunt the tombs, and ſingle out the place
Where earth itſelf ſhall ſuffer a diſgrace.
Go ſpell the letters on ſome mouldring urn,
And aſk if he who ſleeps there can return.
Go count the numbers that in ſile [...] lie,
And learn by ſtudy what it is to die,
[]For ſure that heart—if any heart you own
Conceits that man expires without a Groan:
That he who lives receives from you a grace,
Or death is nothing but a change of place:
That peace is dull, that joy from ſorrow ſprings,
And War the Royal raree ſhew of things,
Elſe why theſe ſ [...]enes that wound the feeling mind
This ſport of death—this Cockpit of Mankind.
Why ſobs the widow in perpetual pain?
Why cries the Orphan?—"Oh my Father's ſlain"
Why hangs the Sire his paralytic head?
And nods with manly grief—"My Son is dead."
Why drops the tears from off the ſiſters cheek?
And ſweetly tells the ſorrows ſhe would ſpeak,
Or why in lonely ſteps does penſive John?
To all the neighbours tell, "Poor maſters gone."
Oh could I paint the paſſion, I can feel,
Or point a horror that would wound like ſteel
To thy unfeeling, unrelenting mind
I'd ſend a torture and relieve mankind.
Thou that art huſband, father, brother, all
The tender names which kindred learn to call.
Yet like an image carv'd in maſſey ſtone,
Thou bear'ſt the ſhape, but ſentiment has't none,
Allied by duſt and figure, not by mind,
Thou only herd'ſt, but liv'ſt not with mankind.
And prone to love, like ſome outrageous ape,
Thou know'ſt each claſs of beings by their ſhape.
Since then no hopes to civilize remain
And all petitions have gone forth in vain,
One prayer is left which dreads no proud reply,
That he who made thee breath will make thee die.
COMMON SENSE.