V.

Master of a mighty college, Without his robes behold him stand, Whom not a Whig will now acknowledge, Return his bow, or shake his hand. Is the sable Jackson fled? Thy friend is gone he hides his powder’d head. The Bedells, too, by whom the mace is borne, Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the morn and soft the zephyr blows, While gently sidling through the crowded street In scarlet robe, Clare’s[60] tiny master goes. Ware[61] clears the road, and Gunning[61] guides his feet, Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway That, hush’d in grim repose, marks Jemmy for its prey.