Have all been granted to these friends who fleece—
Friends who will hang like burs upon his coat,
And boundless judge the value of a vote.
And, though the terrors of the time be pass'd,
There still remain the scatterings of the blast.
The boughs are parted that entwined before,
And ancient harmony exists no more;
The gusts of wrath our peaceful seats deform,
120
And sadly flows the sighing of the storm: