 | The political dramatist, in November, 1795 |  |
The House was up; the long debate was o'er;
And Addington was vocal now no more;
Nor voice, nor vote along the benches crept,
And Corn-committees bak'd their bread, and slept;
Somnus and Ceres no sage members scorn,
But own the poppy grows among the corn.
His friends from idle terrors to release,
Pitt cast faint gleams of visionary peace;
Pleas'd with the distant ray some grew content,
And Wilberforce, retracting, bow'd assent.
The Attic Fox had pour'd his throat
in sighs
O'er emigration's dreadful sacrifice,
And pious drops o'er gallant Sombreuil shed;
(Burke was not there; and Wyndham shook his head.)
Before him rose to sullen dreary view
Misguided plans in treachery's darkest hue,
The Quiberonian Bay, and sacred Isle,
Misnam'd of God, where heav'n will never smile.
While Moira, whose commanding course is run,
In journies often, but in perils none,
Surveys his trophies with Rinaldo's air,
Breaks through th'inchanted forest in despair,
Low-murm'ring quits Southampton's armed street,
And lays his fame at pious Godfrey's feet.
And Addington was vocal now no more;
Nor voice, nor vote along the benches crept,
And Corn-committees bak'd their bread, and slept;
Somnus and Ceres no sage members scorn,
But own the poppy grows among the corn.
His friends from idle terrors to release,
Pitt cast faint gleams of visionary peace;
Pleas'd with the distant ray some grew content,
And Wilberforce, retracting, bow'd assent.
6
O'er emigration's dreadful sacrifice,
And pious drops o'er gallant Sombreuil shed;
(Burke was not there; and Wyndham shook his head.)
Before him rose to sullen dreary view
Misguided plans in treachery's darkest hue,
The Quiberonian Bay, and sacred Isle,
Misnam'd of God, where heav'n will never smile.
While Moira, whose commanding course is run,
In journies often, but in perils none,
Surveys his trophies with Rinaldo's air,
Breaks through th'inchanted forest in despair,
Low-murm'ring quits Southampton's armed street,
And lays his fame at pious Godfrey's feet.
See all the public papers for the last ten or twelve months, filled with accounts of Major General the Earl of Moira's travels from Southampton to Downing Street, and from Downing Street to Southampton, almost every other day, during his long command of the armament encamped near Southampton, at that time supposed to be destined for the coast of France. The noble Earl has since resigned his command, and broke his staff, without having done, or even attempted, any thing.
| The political dramatist, in November, 1795 | |