The Hybrids, An Epi-comic Satire by An M. D. - HTML preview

AS-CRIPTION.

HAIL blest stupidity! impervious shield
 Of dullness hail! No thorn in all the field
 Of reason, wit, or satire, hath been found,
 Could reach thy soul in toughest bull-hide bound!

Refreshingly unconscious thou dost graze
 Amid the brambles of sublunar ways,
 In rare beatitude of placid soul,
 Thy skin unbroken sound and whole;

Smiling serene, while scratches, wounds, and pricks
 Of fate adverse, and fame’s vexatious tricks,
 Which goad the thinner skinned to agony,
 But prove a pleasing stimulant to thee.

How almost enviable is such state.
 Where angels of bliss indifferent await
 To keep the stinging brood of scorn at bay,
 And turn the keener darts of love away;—
 Where grateful thistles bloom the live-long day,
 And long ears wave triumphant at each bray.