Page:The dispensary - a poem in six canto's (sic) (IA b30356775).pdf/102

And who those mangled Manes are, which show
A sullen Satisfaction at your Woe?

⁠Since, said the Ghost, with Pity you'll attend,
Know, I'm Guiäcum, once your firmest Friend.
And on this barren Beach in Discontent
And doom'd to stay, 'till th'angry Pow'rs relent.
Those Spectres seam'd with Scars that threaten there,
The Victims of my late ill Conduct are.
They vex with endless Clamours my Repose:
This wants his Palate; That demands his Nose:
And here they execute stern Pluto's Will,
And ply me ev'ry moment with a Pill.

⁠Then Celsus thus: O much-lamented State!
How rigid is the Sentence you relate?
Methinks I recoiled your former Air,
But ah, how much you're chang'd from what you were!
Insipid as your late Ptisans you lye.
That once were sprightlier far than Mercury.
At the sad Tale you tell, the Poppies weep,
And mourn their vegetable Souls asleep.
The unctuous Larix, and the healing Pine
Lament your Fate in Tears of Turpentine.
But still the Off-spring of your Brain shall prove
The Grocers Care, and brave the Rage of Jove.
When Bonfires blaze your vagrant Works shall rise
In Rockets, 'till they reach the wond'ring Skies.

⁠If Mortals e'er the Stygian Pow'rs cou'd bend,
Entreaties to their awful Seats I'd send.
But since no human Arts the Fates dissuade;
Direct me how to find bless'd Harvy's Shade.