Have kept their great original in view:
Patents they scorn, as modern innovation,
And here have humbly made a barn their station:
A barn!—in which though time has made a breach,
They cleave the general air with horrid speech.
"The wearied rustic now the flail suspends,
And the drum's thunder all the region rends;
Where erst the reapers sung their Harvest Home,
The martial trumpet echoes through the dome;
Remov'd, the chaff-dispersing, winnowing fly,