How singularly fortunes changes fall! Slow sneaking forth comes learned Weatherall.[40] Yet half asleep, he seems just rous’d from bed; Still shines the greasy nightcap on his head. Unwash’d his face and hands, uncomb’d his hair, Cut is his beard, but left the lather there. One stocking decently his leg adorns, The other, inside out, it’s neighbour scorns. No brace sustains his small-clothes from the dirt, Nor keeps conceal’d the mysteries of shirt. Still is there something in his face and eye, That serves to shew the mind’s ability,-- A strange effect of visage, that foretells Profound research, e’en while it’s glance repells-- The light of wisdom ting’d by folly’s shade,-- Scholastic knowledge turned to masquerade. He speaks; his diction, exquisitely rare, Astounds the wise, and makes the simple stare. Greek, Latin, Hebrew, tear his wearied lungs, And English learns to speak in other tongues. Fantastic thoughts fantastic language glean, And reason wonders what they both can mean. Ill has he tried to mount the heights of fame By barter’d honor, and a turncoats name. Why did he plead for traitors all unask’d? The truth in vain dissimulation mask’d:-- ’Twas injured pride, and baffled hope that urg’d,-- The patriot counsel in the madman merg’d. How frail for him the web ambition spun;-- As now he is, so was his race begun. What if he fall, or if he rise again, We take no pleasure, and we feel no pain. Few seek his friendship, or to hate have room,-- His heart a wilderness, his head a tomb; From this the sympathies of life refuse To spring, or soon their balmy fragrance lose; That serves to bury Wisdom’s ancient lore, But drives the living from its murky door. All hail! Sir Charles! not Master of the Rolls, Tho’ half decreed to tend those musty scrolls; Had but the Premier sooner told his mind, Or thou, Sir Charles, less hastily resign’d. Sir Charles! what more? the sybil sisters fly, And hide in mist the book of destiny!