The Robber.

THE moon hangs lightly on yon western hill; And now it gives a parting look, like one Who sadly leaves the guilty. You and I Must watch, when all is dark, and steal along By these lone trees, and wait for plunder. —Hush! I hear the coming of some luckless wheel, Bearing we know not what— perhaps the wealth Torn from the needy, to be hoarded up By those who only count it; and perhaps The spendthrift's losses, or the gambler's gains, The thriving merchant's rich remittances, Or the small trifle some poor serving girl Sends to her poorer parents. But come on— Be cautious. — There — 't is done; and now away, With breath drawn in, and noiseless step, to seek The darkness that befits so dark a deed. Now strike your light.— Ye powers that look upon us! What have we here? Whigs, Sentinels, Gazettes, Heralds, and Posts, and Couriers — Mercuries, Recorders, Advertisers, and Intelligencers — Advocates and Auroras. — There, what's that! That's — a Price Current. I do venerate The man, who rolls the smooth and silky sheet Upon the well cut copper. I respect The worthier names of those who sign bank bills; And, though no literary man, I love To read their short and pithy sentences. But I hate types, and printers — and the gang Of editors and scribblers. Their remarks, Essays, songs, paragraphs, and prophecies, I utterly detest. —And these, particularly, Are just the meanest and most rascally, ' Stale and unprofitable' publications, I ever read in my life.