And back recall’d her myrmidons, intent
On some new game, and with a stronger scent;
Till she beholds him in a place, where none
Could have conceived the culprit would have gone;
There he sits upright in his seat, secure,
As one whose conscience is correct and pure;
This rouses anger for the old offence,
And scorn for all such seeming and pretence: 
So on this Hammond look’d our hero bold,
Rememb’ring well that vile offence of old;
And now he saw the rebel dar’d t’intrude
Among the pure, the loyal, and the good;
The crime provok’d his wrath, the folly stirr’d his blood: 
Nor wonder was it, if so strange a sight
Caused joy with vengeance, terror with delight;
Terror like this a tiger might create,
A joy like that to see his captive state,
At once to know his force and then decree his fate. 
   Hammond, much praised by numerous friends, was come
To read his lectures, so admired at home;
Historic lectures, where he loved to mix
His free plain hints on modern politics: 
Here, he had heard, that numbers had design,
Their business finish’d, to sit down and dine;
This gave him pleasure, for he judged it right
To show by day that he could speak at night. 
Rash the design—­for he perceived, too late,
Not one approving friend beside him sate;
The greater number, whom he traced around,
Were men in black, and he conceived they frown’d. 
“I will not speak,” he thought; “no pearls of mine
Shall be presented to this herd of swine;”
Not this avail’d him, when he cast his eye
On Justice Bolt; he could not fight, nor fly: 
He saw a man to whom he gave the pain,
Which now he felt must be return’d again;
His conscience told him with what keen delight
He, at that time, enjoy’d a stranger’s fright;
That stranger now befriended—­he alone,
For all his insult, friendless, to atone;
Now he could feel it cruel that a heart
Should be distress’d, and none to take its part;
“Though one by one,” said Pride, “I would defy
Much greater men, yet meeting every eye,
I do confess a fear—­but he will pass me by.” 
   Vain hope! the Justice saw the foe’s distress,
With exultation he could not suppress;
He felt the fish was hook’d—­and so forbore,
In playful spite to draw it to the shore. 
Hammond look’d round again; but none were near,
With friendly smile to still his growing fear;
But all above him seem’d a solemn row
Of priests and deacons, so they seem’d below;
He wonder’d who his right-hand man might be —
Vicar of Holt cum Uppingham was he;
And who the man of that dark frown possess’d —
Rector of Bradley and of Barton-west;
“A pluralist,” he growl’d—­but check’d the word,
That warfare might not, by his zeal, be stirr’d. 
   But now began the man above to show
Fierce looks and threat’nings to the man below;
Who had some thoughts his peace by flight to seek