Now fades in slow debate the lingering night,
And each dull speech in solemn stillness ends,
Save where Bragge-Bathurst wheels his droning flight,
Or drowsy Hiley cheers his stammering friends;
Save that, from yonder nook with placemen stor’d,
Old Rose doth to the Treasury Bench complain
Of such as wandering near the Navy Board,
Molest his ancient pensionary reign.
Beneath that gallery’s height, that pillar’d shade,
Where heave those seats with many a slumbering heap,