Such are our guides; how many a peaceful head,
Born to be still, have they to wrangling led! 
How many an honest zealot stol’n from trade,
And factious tools of pious pastors made! 
With clews like these they thread the maze of state,
These oracles explore, to learn our fate;
Pleased with the guides who can so well deceive,
Who cannot lie so fast as they believe. 
   Oft lend I, loth, to some sage friend an ear,
(For we who will not speak are doom’d to hear);
While he, bewilder’d, tells his anxious thought,
Infectious fear from tainted scribblers caught,
Or idiot hope; for each his mind assails,
As Lloyd’s court-light or STOCKDALE’S gloom prevails. 
Yet stand I patient while but one declaims,
Or gives dull comments on the speech he maims: 
But oh! ye Muses, keep your votary’s feet
From tavern-haunts where politicians meet;
Where rector, doctor, and attorney pause,
First on each parish, then each public cause: 
Indited roads, and rates that still increase;
The murmuring poor, who will not fast in peace;
Election zeal and friendship, since declined;
A tax commuted, or a tithe in kind;
The Dutch and Germans kindling into strife;
Dull port and poachers vile; the serious ills of life. 
   Here comes the neighbouring Justice, pleased to guide
His little club, and in the chair preside. 
In private business his commands prevail,
On public themes his reasoning turns the scale;
Assenting silence soothes his happy ear,
And, in or out, his party triumphs here. 
   Nor here th’ infectious rage for party stops,
But flits along from palaces to shops;
Our weekly journals o’er the land abound,
And spread their plague and influenzas round;
The village, too, the peaceful, pleasant plain,
Breeds the Whig farmer and the Tory swain;
Brookes’ and St Alban’s boasts not, but, instead,
Stares the Red Ram, and swings the Rodney’s Head:-
Hither, with all a patriot’s care, comes he
Who owns the little hut that makes him free;
Whose yearly forty shillings buy the smile
Of mightier men, and never waste the while;
Who feels his freehold’s worth, and looks elate,
A little prop and pillar of the state. 
   Here he delights the weekly news to con,
And mingle comments as he blunders on;
To swallow all their varying authors teach,
To spell a title, and confound a speech: 
Till with a muddled mind he quits the news,
And claims his nation’s licence to abuse;
Then joins the cry, “That all the courtly race
Are venal candidates for power and place;”
Yet feels some joy, amid the general vice,
That his own vote will bring its wonted price. 
   These are the ills the teeming Press supplies,
The pois’nous springs from learning’s fountain rise;
Not there the wise alone their entrance find,
Imparting useful light to mortals blind;
But, blind themselves, these erring guides hold out