‘ Tis strange that things upon the ground
Are commonly most steady found
While those in station proud
Are turned and twirled, or twist about,
Now here and there, now in or out,
Mere play things to a cloud.
See yonder influential man,
So late the stern Republican
While interest bore him up;
See him recant, abjure the cause,
See him support tyrannic laws,
The dregs of slavery's cup!
Thus, on yon’ steeple towering high,
Where clouds and storms distracted fly,
The weather-cock is placed;
Which only while the storm does blow
Is to one point of compass true,
Then veers with every blast.
But things are so appointed here
That weather-cocks on high appear,
On pinnacle displayed,
While Sense, and Worth, and reasoning wights,
And they who plead for Human Rights,
Sit humble in the shade.