VII.

Jemmy, lo! to sudden fate, (Pass the wine――the liquor’s good) Half of thy year we consecrate: The web is now what was the _wood_, But mark the scene beneath the senate’s height See the petition’s crowded skirts unroll; Visions of glory spare my aching sight, Unborn commencements crowd not on my soul, No more our Kaye,[62] our Thackeray[62], we bewail; All hail! thou genuine Prince,[63] Britannia’s issue, hail!