xxvii.
Upon a bright throne of his own creation:
Untortured by the ghastly sprites that flit
Around the many, whose exalted station
Has been attained by means 'twere pain to hint on,
Just for the rhyme's sake—instance Mr. Clinton.
xxviii.
The mountain air at last; but there are others
Who strove, like him, to win the glittering wreaths
Of power, his early partisans and brothers,
That linger yet in dust from whence they sprung,
Unhonored and unpaid, though, luckily, unhung.
xxix.
Of party; and they hoped, when it arose,
To soar like eagles in the blaze of noon,
Above the gaping crowd of friends and foes.
Alas! like Guillé's car, it soared without them,
And left them with a mob to jeer and flout them.
xxx.
I've dwelt so long upon—they were more stable;