And (O shame's nauseous dregs!) did noble lips Here taste that stream with epicurean sips? And mitred heads, as o'er its scum they bent, Snuff the rank steam, and chuckle at the scent?-- My soul is sick!--I turn with sated ear, And find a cordial in my brethren here. Peers who their conscience to no market bring; Respect themselves, their country, and their king: Nor would round England's smiling hearths diffuse The breath--the very atmosphere of stews. O horrid! yes, I feel the blast impure, Air no blessed spirit may unpained endure: Yet leave I not without a warning voice: Hear, and obey, and Britons shall rejoice! "You cannot, Lords! by votes create a crime, Nor make your country's voice with falsehood chime:-- You cannot quench, with all this flood of LIES, A gallant people's glowing sympathies:-- You cannot hide your idol God from them, When prone you kiss its garment's nether hem:-- You cannot waste their treasure on a cause, That boldly violates their guardian laws; And 'scape the arrows from their quiver hurl'd-- The keen reproach, and hisses of the world. You may cry 'GUILTY!' but the umpire land Cancels the verdict with indignant hand, Reveres the NOBLE MANY who uphold The nation's dignity; nor brooks that gold, Wrung hardly from her toiling sons, should pay The Judas gang that would her rights betray. Scorn meets THE FEW who, bought by pandering power, Outvote the nation's voice in hapless hour. O pause ere yet that fatal hour is seen!-- Be counsell'd, Lords!--You cannot crush your Queen, But by a blow that must, with blind intent, Bruise THRONE and ALTAR in its dire descent!