No More Learning

Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure,
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure;
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last
To stumble, kick--and now and then stick fast
With his great Self and Rider in the mud;
But what of that? the animal shows blood.


XIV.

Alas, the Country! how shall tongue or pen
Bewail her now _un_country gentlemen?
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 570
The first to make a malady of peace.
For what were all these country patriots born?
To hunt--and vote--and raise the price of corn?
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall,
Kings--Conquerors--and markets most of all.
And must ye fall with every ear of grain?
Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign?
He was your great Triptolemus;[333] his vices
Destroyed but realms, and still maintained your prices;
He amplified to every lord's content 580
The grand agrarian alchymy, high _rent_. [er]
Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars,
And lower wheat to such desponding quarters?
Why did you chain him on yon Isle so lone?
The man was worth much more upon his throne.
True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt,
But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt;
But bread was high, the farmer paid his way,
And acres told upon the appointed day. [es]
But where is now the goodly audit ale? 590
The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail?
The farm which never yet was left on hand?
The marsh reclaimed to most improving land?
The impatient hope of the expiring lease?
The doubling rental? What an evil's peace!
In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill,
In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill;[334]
The _Landed Interest_--(you may understand
The phrase much better leaving out the _land_)--
The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 600
For fear that plenty should attain the poor. [et]
Up, up again, ye rents, exalt your notes,
Or else the Ministry will lose their votes,
And patriotism, so delicately nice,
Her loaves will lower to the market price;[eu]
For ah! "the loaves and fishes," once so high,
Are gone--their oven closed, their ocean dry,[ev]
And nought remains of all the millions spent,
Excepting to grow moderate and content.
They who are not so, _had_ their turn--and turn 610
About still flows from Fortune's equal urn;
Now let their virtue be its own reward,
And share the blessings which themselves prepared.
See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,
Farmers of war, dictators of the farm;
_Their_ ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands,
_Their_ fields manured by gore of other lands;
Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent
Their brethren out to battle--why? for rent!
Year after year they voted cent.