Nor fain to treat with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple cases of the poor.
The boast of sergeantry the leaders’ power,
And all that purple, all that silk e’er gave,
Alike at sessions wait but for that hour
When profits path is opened—to the grave!
Nor yon, ye crowd, impute to these the fault,
If none in aught but stuff his form displays,
While o’er the long-drawn ranks incessant vault,
Some whom mere chance, and some whom hugging raise.