Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe,
That sang the Pillory,
In loftier strains to show
A more sublime Machine
Than that, where them wert seen,
With neck out-stretcht and shoulders ill awry,
Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below—­
A most unseemly show!

II

        In such a place
        Who could expose thy face,
        Historiographer of deathless Crusoe! 
        That paint’st the strife
        And all the naked ills of savage life,
        Far above Rousseau? 
        Rather myself had stood
        In that ignoble wood,
        Bare to the mob, on holyday or high day. 
        If nought else could atone
        For waggish libel,
        I swear on bible,
        I would have spared him for thy sake alone,
        Man Friday!

III

        Our ancestors’ were sour days,
        Great Master of Romance! 
        A milder doom had fallen to thy chance
        In our days: 
        Thy sole assignment
        Some solitary confinement,
        (Not worth thy care a carrot,)
        Where in world-hidden cell
        Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well,
        Only without the parrot;
        By sure experience taught to know,
        Whether the qualms thou mak’st him feel were truly such or no.

IV

        But stay! methinks in statelier measure—­
        A more companionable pleasure—­
        I see thy steps the mighty Tread Mill trace,
        (The subject of my song
        Delay’d however long,)
        And some of thine own race,
        To keep thee company, thou bring’st with thee along. 
        There with thee go,
        Link’d in like sentence,
        With regulated pace and footing slow,
        Each old acquaintance,
        Rogue—­harlot—­thief—­that live to future ages;
        Through many a labour’d tome,
        Rankly embalm’d in thy too natural pages. 
        Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home! 
        Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack,
        From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack. 
        Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags;
        Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags,
        There points to Amy, treading equal chimes,
        The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes.

V

        Incompetent my song to raise
        To its just height thy praise,
        Great Mill! 
        That by thy motion proper
        (No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill)
        Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will,
        Turn’st out men’s consciences,
        That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet
        As flower from purest wheat,
        Into thy hopper. 
        All reformation short of thee but nonsense is,
        Or human, or divine.