Beneath those beams; those yet unfinished towers,
At present echoing with the workman’s clang:
Upon their legs, perchance, for weary hours,
Shall Britain’s future Senators harangue.
Full many a Whig of coldest heart serene,
Shall broach his philosophic nonsense there;
Full many a Tory, born abuse to screen,
Shall waste his humbug on the midnight air.
Some future Duncombe, there, with dauntless breast,
The tyrant of his diocese shall twit;