Classic Poem

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 darkened air;
Wise people, who believed with reason,
That this eclipse was out of season,
Affirmed 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, delivered 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,
Joined with a brazen politician,
Exposed, to blind the nation's eyes,
A parchment of prodigious size;
Concealed beneath that ample screen,
There was no silver to be seen.
But, to this parchment let the Draper
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.