O long revered, and late resigned to shame! 
     If this uncourtly page thy notice claim
     When the loud cares of business are withdrawn,
     Nor well-drest beggars round thy footsteps fawn;
     In that still, thoughtful, solitary hour,
     When Truth exerts her unresisted power,
     Breaks the false optics tinged with fortune’s glare,
     Unlocks the breast, and lays the passions bare: 
     Then turn thy eyes on that important scene,
     And ask thyself—­if all be well within. 
     Where is the heart-felt worth and weight of soul,
     Which labor could not stop, nor fear control? 
     Where the known dignity, the stamp of awe,
     Which, half abashed, the proud and venal saw? 
     Where the calm triumphs of an honest cause? 
     Where the delightful taste of just applause? 
     Where the strong reason, the commanding tongue,
     On which the Senate fired or trembling hung! 
     All vanished, all are sold—­and in their room,
     Couched in thy bosom’s deep, distracted gloom,
     See the pale form of barbarous Grandeur dwell,
     Like some grim idol in a sorcerer’s cell! 
     To her in chains thy dignity was led;
     At her polluted shrine thy honour bled;
     With blasted weeds thy awful brow she crowned,
     Thy powerful tongue with poisoned philters bound,
     That baffled Reason straight indignant flew,
     And fair Persuasion from her seat withdrew: 
     For now no longer Truth supports thy cause;
     No longer Glory prompts thee to applause;
     No longer Virtue breathing in thy breast,
     With all her conscious majesty confest,
     Still bright and brighter wakes the almighty flame,
     To rouse the feeble, and the willful tame,
     And where she sees the catching glimpses roll,
     Spreads the strong blaze, and all involves the soul;
     But cold restraints thy conscious fancy chill,
     And formal passions mock thy struggling will;
     Or, if thy Genius e’er forget his chain,
     And reach impatient at a nobler strain,
     Soon the sad bodings of contemptuous mirth
     Shoot through thy breast, and stab the generous birth,
     Till, blind with smart, from truth to frenzy tost,
     And all the tenor of thy reason lost,
     Perhaps thy anguish drains a real tear;
     While some with pity, some with laughter hear.

* * * * *

     Ye mighty foes of liberty and rest,
     Give way, do homage to a mightier guest! 
     Ye daring spirits of the Roman race,
     See Curio’s toil your proudest claims efface!—­
     Awed at the name, fierce Appius rising bends,
     And hardy Cinna from his throne attends: 
     “He comes,” they cry, “to whom the fates assigned
     With surer arts to work what we designed,
     From year to year the stubborn herd to sway,