Beware, nor overbulky grow,
Nor come within your cully's reach;
For, if the sea should sink so low
To leave you dry upon the beach,
You'll owe your ruin to your bulk:
Your foes already waiting stand,
To tear you like a founder'd hulk,
While you lie helpless on the sand.
Thus, when a whale has lost the tide,
The coasters crowd to seize the spoil:
The monster into parts divide,
And strip the bones, and melt the oil.
Oh! may some western tempest sweep
These locusts whom our fruits have fed,
That plague, directors, to the deep,
Driven from the South Sea to the Red!
May he, whom Nature's laws obey,
Who lifts the poor, and sinks the proud,
"Quiet the raging of the sea,
And still the madness of the crowd!"
But never shall our isle have rest,
Till those devouring swine run down,
(The devils leaving the possest)
And headlong in the waters drown.
The nation then too late will find,
Computing all their cost and trouble,
Directors' promises but wind,
South Sea, at best, a mighty bubble.
[Footnote 1: Phaethon. Ovid, "Metam.," lib. ii.--_W. E. B._]
[Footnote 2: See the fable of Midas.
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