A Simile; On Our Want Of Silver, And The Only Way To Remedy It.

As when of old some sorceress threw     O'er the moon's face a sable hue,     To drive unseen her magic chair,     At midnight, through the darken'd air;     Wise people, who believed with reason     That this eclipse was out of season,     Affirm'd the moon was sick, and fell     To cure her by a counter spell.     Ten thousand cymbals now begin,     To rend the skies with brazen din;     The cymbals' rattling sounds dispel     The cloud, and drive the hag to hell.     The moon, deliver'd from her pain,     Displays her silver face again.     Note here, that in the chemic style,     The moon is silver all this while.         So (if my simile you minded,     Which I confess is too long-winded)     When late a feminine magician,[1]     Join'd with a brazen politician,[2]     Exposed, to blind the nation's eyes,     A parchment[3] of prodigious size;     Conceal'd behind that ample screen,     There was no silver to be seen.     But to this parchment let the Drapier     Oppose his counter-charm of paper,     And ring Wood's copper in our ears     So loud till all the nation hears;     That sound will make the parchment shrivel     And drive the conjurors to the Devil;     And when the sky is grown serene,     Our silver will appear again.