Thomas Morris

Ease is the pray’r of him who, in a whaleboat Crossing Lake Champlain, by a storm’s o’ertaken: Not struck his blanket, not a friendly island Near to receive him. Ease is the wish too of the sly Canadian; Ease the delight of bloody Caghnawagas; Ease, Richard, ease, not to be bought with wampum, Nor paper money. Nor colonel’s pay, nor yet a dapper sergeant, Orderly waiting with recovered halberd, Can chase the crowd of troubles still surrounding Laced regimentals. That sub lives best who, with a sash in tatters Worn by his grandsire at the fight of Blenheim, To fear a stranger, and to wild ambition, Snores on a bearskin. Why like fine-fellows are we ever scheming, We short-lived mortals? Why so fond of climates Warmed by new suns? O who, that runs from home, can Run from himself too? Care climbs radeaux with four-and-twenty pounders, Not quits our light troops, or our Indian warriors, Swifter than moose-deer, or the fleeter east wind, Pushing the clouds on. He, whose good humor can enjoy the present, Scorns to look forward; with a smile of patience Temp’ring the bitter. Bliss uninterrupted None can inherit. Death instantaneous hurried off Achilles; Age far-extended wore away Tithonus. Who will live longer, thou or I, Montgom’ry? Dicky or Tommy? Thee twenty messmates, full of noise and laughter, Cheer with their sallies; thee the merry damsels Please with their titt’ring; whilst thou sitt’st adorned with Boots, sash and gorget. Me to Fort Hendrick, midst a savage nation, Dull Connajohry, cruel fate has driven. O think on Morris, in a lonely chamber, Dabbling in Sapphic.