Mad Sedition’s cry prophane, Servitude that hugs her chain, Nor in these consecrated bow’rs Let painted Flatt’ry hide her serpent train in flow’rs. CHORUS. Nor Envy pale, nor creeping Gain, Dare the Muse’s walk to stain, While bright-ey’d Science walks around; Hence! avaunt! ’tis holy ground. * * * * * Two long parodies of this ode may be found in Volume IV. of _The New Foundling Hospital for Wit_, London, 1786, both treat of the political questions of the day, and refer to persons long since forgotten, so that it is unnecessary to quote more than a verse or two from each:―― TRAVESTIE _Air._ Hence! avaunt! ’tis venal ground, Wilkes, and all his free-born crew; Within our pale no room is found, Ye modern Algernons, for you. Mute be the bold Alcaic strain Of liberty, that spurns a chain, Nor in these pliant courtly bow’rs Let harsh Phillippic weeds choke adulation’s flowers. _Chorus._ Virtue hence! with brow severe! Public spirit come not near, While servile int’rest walks around; Hence! avaunt! ’tis venal ground! ―――― ANOTHER TRAVESTIE. _Air._ Hence avaunt, ’tis sacred ground; Let pallid freedom ever fly, Let innocence in chains be bound, Nor e’er come truth or virtue nigh! Opposition’s cry prophane, Liberty that scorns the chain, Nor in these consecrated fields, Let injur’d justice weep, that she to tyrants yields. _Chorus._ Nor dare bright truth, the patriot’s friend, The minister’s high walk offend, While stern-ey’d Fitzroy stalks around; Hence! avaunt! ’tis sacred ground. _Recitative._ From yonder realms of ministerial sway Bursts on my ear th’ applauding lay: There sit the pension’d sage, the peer prophane, The few whom interest gives to reign O’er every unborn place or yet unclaim’d domain, Deep in the nation’s business they, Yet hither oft a glance from high, They send of triumph and of joy, To bless the place, where first, on freedom’s soul. He bade the Scottish thunder roll. ’Twas N――t――n rais’d that deep-ton’d voice, And as discordant murm’rings round him rose, The Speaker’s self bends from his chair on high, And shakes his awful wig, and joins the courtly cry. _Air._ Ye high o’er-hanging walls That sure no monarch loves, Where fain would freedom linger with delight, Oft at the break of day He’s sought your wearied way, Oft by the glare of flambeaux glitt’ring light, In chariot close, fresh from the haunts of folly, With Nancy by his side, sworn foe to melancholy. _Recitative._