The political dramatist, in November, 1795 | ||
7
For mobs and crowds unthinking Bedford sigh'd;
Nor saw where, hov'ring o'er th'accursed tomb,
Glar'd the red crest of Orleans through the gloom.
The sullen moody violence of Grey,
Soften'd by love, in raptures died away:
While Erskine, o'er his Hampstead bending down,
Like Him of Lincoln, look'd o'er half the town,
Wond'ring with lawyer's leer and selfish end,
What new-hatch'd treason he must next defend.
Grant was compos'd, nor sought the applause of youth,
In reason's strength, in soberness of truth;
Such as from Fox unwilling praise might draw,
For warmth of eloquence, and soundest law.
The political dramatist, in November, 1795 | ||