Thomas Paine: Verses about Parting

The rain pours down, the city looks forlorn,
And gloomy subjects suit the howling morn;
Close by my fire, with door and window fast,
And safely shelter'd from the driving blast,
To gayer thoughts I bid a day's adieu,
To spend a scene of solitude with you.

So oft has black revenge engross'd the care
Of all the leisure hours man finds to spare;
So oft has guilt, in all her thousand dens,
Call'd for the vengeance of chastising pens;

That while I fain would ease my heart on you,
No thought is left untold, no passion new.
From flight to flight the mental path appears,
Worn with the steps of near six thousand years,
And fill'd throughout with every scene of pain,
From George the murderer down to murderous Cain
Alike in cruelty, alike in hate,
In guilt alike, but more alike in fate,
Cursed supremely for the blood they drew,
Each from the rising world, while each was new.

Go, man of blood! true likeness of the first,
And strew your blasted head with homely dust:
In ashes sit-in wretched sackcloth weep,
And with unpitied sorrows cease to sleep.
Go haunt the tombs, and single out the place
Where earth itself shall suffer a disgrace.
Go spell the letters on some moldering urn,
And ask if he who sleeps there can return.

Go count the numbers that in silence lie,
And learn by study what it is to die;
For sure your heart, if any heart you own,
Conceits that man expires without a groan;
That he who lives receives from you a grace,
Or death is nothing but a change of place:

That peace is dull, that joy from sorrow springs
And war the most desirable of things.
Else why these scenes that wound the feeling mind,
This sport of death-this cockpit of mankind!
Why sobs the widow in perpetual pain?
Why cries the orphan, 'Oh! my father's slain!'
Why hangs the sire his paralytic head,
And nods with manly grief-'My son is dead!'
Why drops the tear from off the sister's cheek,
And sweetly tells the misery she would speak?
Or why in sorrow sunk, does pensive John
To all the neighbors tell, 'Poor master's gone!'

Oh I could I paint the passion that I feel,
Or point a horror that would wound like steel,
To thy unfeeling, unrelenting mind,
I'd send destruction and relieve mankind.
You that are husbands, fathers, brothers, all
The tender names which kindred learn to call;
Yet like an image carved in massy stone,
You bear the shape, but sentiment have none;
Allied by dust and figure, not with mind,
You only herd, but live not with mankind,

Since then no hopes to civilize remain,
And mild philosophy has preached in vain,
One prayer is left, which dreads no proud reply,
That he who made you breathe will make you die.

Three pedlers traveling to a fair,
To see the fun and what was there,
And sell their merchandise;
They stopp'd upon the road to chat,
Refresh, and ask of this and that,
That they might be more wise.

'And pray,' the landlord says to them,
'Where go ye, sirs?' 'To Bethlehem,'
The citizens replied.
'You're merchants, sirs?” to them said he,
'We are,' replied the pedlers three,
'And Eastern men beside.'

pray, what have you in your packs?
If worth the while I will go snacks,'
To them quoth Major Domo;
'We've buckles, buttons, spectacles,
And everything a merchant sells,'
Replied the travelling trio.

These things are very well,' said he,
'For beaux and those who cannot see
Much further than their knuckles;
But Bethlehem fair's for boys and girls
Who never think of spectacles,
cannot buy your buckles:

'I have a pack of toys,' quoth he,
A travelling merchant left with me,
Who could not pay his score,
And you shall have them on condition
You sell them at a cheap commission,
And make the money sure.'

'There's one of us win stay in pawn,
Until the other two return,
If you suspect our faith,' said they;
The landlord thought this was a plan
To leave upon his hands the man,
And therefore he said 'Nay.'

They truck'd however for the pack,
Which one of them took on his back,
And off the merchants traveled;
And here the tale the apostles told
Of wise men and their gifts of gold,
Will fully be unravelled.

The star in the East that shines so bright,
As might be seen both day and night,
If you will credit them,
It was no other than a sign
To a public house where pedlers dine,
In East Street, Bethlehem.

These wise men were the pedlers three,
As you and all the world may see,
By reading to the end;
For commentators have mistook,
In paraphrasing on a book
They did not understand.

Our travellers coming to a house,
Scarce fit to entertain a mouse,
Inquired to have a room;
The landlord said he was not able,
To give them any but astable,
So many folks were come.

'I pray, whom have you here, say they,
' And how much money must we pay,
For we have none to spare.
'Why, there's one Joseph and a wench,
Who are to go before the bench
About a love affair.

'Somehow or other, in a manger,
A child exposed to every danger
Was found, as if 't was sleeping:
The girl she swears that she's a maid,
So says the man, but I'm afraid
On me will fall the keeping:

'Now if you 'II set your wits about
To find this knotty matter out,
I 'II pay whate'er it may be.”
Then on the trav'ling pedlers went,
To pay their birthday compliment,
And talk about the baby.

They then unpack'd their pack of toys,
Some were for show and some for noise,
But mostly for the latter;
One gave a rattle, one a whistle,
And one a trumpet made of gristle,
To introduce the matter:

One squeaked away, the other blew,
The third played on the rattle too,
To keep the bantling easy;
And hence this story comes to us,
Of which some people make such fuss,
About the Eastern Magi -