To Governor Johnstone

When Satan first from Heaven’s bright region fell,
And fix’d the gloomy monarchy of hell,
Sin then was honest; Pride led on the tribe;
No Devil receiv’d — no Devil propos’d a bribe:
But each infernal, while he fought, abhorr’d
The meaner mongrel arts of sap and fraud;
Brave in his guilt, he rais’d his daring arm,
And scorn’d the heavens, unless obtain’d by storm.
But Britain — Oh! how painful ’tis to tell!
Commits a sin that makes a blush in hell;
Low in the ruins of demolish’d pride
She barely skulks to conquer with a bribe,
And when detected in the rank offence,
Throws out a threat — to turn King’s evidence.
Yet while we scorn the lure, despite the plan,
We feel an angry sorrow at the man;
Was there no wretch, whose cold unkindl’d mind
Ne’er knew one gen’rous passion for mankind,
Whose hackney’d soul, the purchase of a pound,
No guilt could blacken and no shame confound?
No slave to act the dirty work — and spare,
From men of sentiment, the painful tear?
Must Johnstone be the man? Must he, whose tongue
Such able peals of locution rung,
Whose tow’ring genius seem’d at times to rise,
And mix a kindred fervor with the skies,
Whose pointed judgement, and connected sense,
Gave weight to wit, and worth to eloquence;
Must he, Oh shame to genius! be the first
To practise arts himself so loudly curst?
Must he exhibit to a laughing mob,
A turn coat patriot conquer’d by a jobb;
And prove from under his adult’rous pen
How few are just of all the sons of men?
When the sad echo of St. Pulchre’s bell
Tolls to the carted wretch, a last farewell,
Or when the tyrant sees the lifted steel,
They feel those pains which Johnstone ought to feel.
Man may a while in infamy survive,
And by deception think himself alive,
But time will prove to his eternal shame
He dies in earnest who outlives his fame.
Of pitt and you this contrast may be said,
The dead is living; and the living dead.