Gazette Of The United States, & Philadelphia Daily Advertiser

From the Farmer's Weekly Museum.

A REMNANT,
Found in the shop of Peter Du Simitiere, formerly
wholesale merchant in the Columbian Cen-
tinel.

Something about MONSIEUR GOLD
Peter sheweth the Christian talketh most
agely, like his uncle Solomon, about the
Vanity of Vanities;—recounteth some
few tricks passed by a yellow-faced rascal
(known among Christians by the name
of Gold) upon the men of this world.
He finally summoneth up all the gravity
of stoicism, and endeth—as becometh a
man with a small purse.

COME hither Gold, thou little shining wretch,
And tell the pious Peter how you're created;
How many souls you've handed to Jack Ketch,
And wise philosophers in pleasure cheated.
Lo! at thy name the miser starts and stares,
Forgets of pence and farthings half his cares;
Rubs down his lantern jaws, and bids thee walk in,
Will shew thee many kindred long unseen;
Some, about whom our great grand daddies have
been talking—
And yet in stature not the least grown lean;
There little cousins, aunts, and sires lie snug
Untouch'd by gentle zephyr, or the nasty bug,
But Peter will not that thou mind'st his call;
Having of pious matter much to mention—
That is, he means to tell how much dissension
Thou hast created in this earthly ball.
He will not lead thee back to those curs'd times,
When righteousness crawl'd barefoot o'er vast hills
of crimes;
Nor tell thee of neat mansions in the wood,
Where happy natives us'd to dance and caper,
Burning away in pleasure life's short taper
'Till thirst for thee spread wide fell passion's broad;
Then sweet simplicity and virtue bled,
And kind creation hung her weeping head.

[Here the best part of the poem is missing]

Meek Peter scorns thee as the worst of ill;
Much dreads thy entrance in his humble cot—
Had rather bear of penury the lot,
Than all the pleasures which thy powers instil.
Thou scatterest poison through the feeble mind,
And mak'st thy votaries to compassion blind.
Thou changest friendship to a false parade,
Playest the fool with many a feeling heart;
Deeper thou plungest keen affliction's dart,
Then smil'st contemptuous on the wounds thou'st
made.
E'en from the palace to the nauseous cell,
Thy works—curs'd Gold—in wretched ruin dwell.

PETER QUINCE.