And watched the changes of his countenance; Thus have I seen, or fancied to have seen, Remorse and terror painted on his mein: Remorse for mischief done at best in sloth, And terror; but how short the reign of both, More lively feelings soon his grief restrain, And heartless Eldon is himself again. Albeit, when thieves in penitence begin To weep their guilty deeds, and fly from sin, The world oft profits by their former vice, Should chance enroll them in the state police; They follow crime as some old fox might do, Who hunted once, another should pursue, Woe to the wretch, that struggles to evade The wary cunning of such renegade; In vain each wile, each mazy turn he tries, For justice triumphs, and the culprit dies. So hopes the world that Eldon, now resigned, Will own the faults to which his eyes were blind; Chase out corruption from his dark abode, And cleanse each path where fraud the usurper strode; Thus may he by that dying act efface The burning stigma of a life’s disgrace. Shrink not, my lord, whate’er the muse appears, She wars but feebly with declining years; Compassion fetters what she fain would sing, And robs severity of half its sting: Those hoary locks command respect from youth, But cannot wholly close the lips of truth. Suppose the judgment given[24]; but after years Of endless labour, and a million tears: Suppose the minutes by his lordship’s scrawl Drawn out and settled, after many a brawl; Wherein loquacious Agar[25] bears the bell-- An empty clapper in a brazen shell. Hark! how the frothy nonsense from his lips Involves the audience in one black eclipse, From which in vain they struggle to be free. When darkness triumphs, who can hope to see? Gods! what a tongue, and what a lack of wits! How well the former with the latter sits! In him the worst of causes finds a friend; He tears to tatters what he cannot mend. But still his eloquence is most sublime, In points of practice and in tricks for time; In petty motions for some end absurd, To please his Frowd, or gratify his Hurd. When broken down, he next resorts to lies, Disputes another’s word, his own denies, Insists that all the law is on his side And Truth proclaims a perjured Suicide! When on his legs, ’tis hard to get him down, Tho’ counsel cough, and oft his Lordship frown. He bungles on; while dulness weaves a wreathe To crown his head when fairly out of breath,-- A wreath of poppies mingled with night-bane, That once asleep, he ne’er may wake again. Blest consummation! may it happen soon, Or those, who hear, will first essay, the boon.