LITMIR.BIZ

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      I wish he would explain his explanation.

      You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know,

      At being disappointed in your wish

      To supersede all warblers here below,

      And be the only blackbird in the dish.

      And then you overstrain yourself, or so,

      And tumble downward like the flying fish

      Gasping on deck, because you soar too high,

      Bob, And fall for lack of moisture quite a dry Bob.

      And Wordsworth in a rather long Excursion

      (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages)

      Has given a sample from the vasty version

      Of his new system to perplex the sages.

      'Tis poetry, at least by his assertion,

      And may appear so when the Dog Star rages,

      And he who understands it would be able

      To add a story to the tower of Babel.

      You gentlemen, by dint of long seclusion

      From better company, have kept your own

      At Keswick, and through still continued fusion

      Of one another's minds at last have grown

      To deem, as a most logical conclusion,

      That poesy has wreaths for you alone.

      There is a narrowness in such a notion,

      Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.

      I would not imitate the petty thought,

      Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,

      For all the glory your conversion brought,

      Since gold alone should not have been its price.

      You have your salary; was't for that you wrought?

      And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.

      You're shabby fellows—true—but poets still

      And duly seated on the immortal hill.

      Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows,

      Perhaps some virtuous blushes; let them go.

      To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs,

      And for the fame you would engross below,

      The field is universal and allows

      Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow.

      Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try

      'Gainst you the question with posterity.

      For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,

      Contend not with you on the winged' steed,

      I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,

      The fame you envy and the skill you need.

      And recollect a poet nothing loses

      In giving to his brethren their full meed

      Of merit, and complaint of present days

      Is not the certain path to future praise.

      He that reserves his laurels for posterity

      (Who does not often claim the bright reversion)

      Has generally no great crop to spare it, he

      Being only injured by his own assertion.

      And although here and there some glorious rarity

      Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,

      The major part of such appellants go

      To—God knows where—for no one else can know.

      If fallen in evil days on evil tongues,

      Milton appealed to the avenger, Time,

      If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs

      And makes the word Miltonic mean sublime,

      He deigned not to belie his soul in songs,

      Nor turn his very talent to a crime.

      He did not loathe the sire to laud the son,

      But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

      Think'st thou, could he, the blind old man, arise

      Like Samuel from the grave to freeze once more

      The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,

      Or be alive again—again all hoar

      With time and trials, and those helpless eyes

      And heartless daughters—worn and pale and poor,

      Would he adore a sultan? He obey

      The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?

      Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!

      Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,

      And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,

      Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore,

      The vulgarest tool that tyranny could want,

      With just enough of talent and no more,

      To lengthen fetters by another fixed

      And offer poison long already mixed.

      An orator of such set trash of phrase,

      Ineffably, legitimately vile,

      That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,

      Nor foes—all nations—condescend to smile.

      Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze

      From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,

      That turns and turns to give the world a notion

      Of endless torments and perpetual motion.

      A bungler even in its disgusting trade,

      And botching, patching, leaving still behind

      Something of which its masters are afraid,

      States to be curbed and thoughts to be confined,

      Conspiracy or congress to be made,

      Cobbling at manacles for all mankind,

      A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,

      With God and man's abhorrence for its gains.

      If we may judge of matter by the mind,

      Emasculated to the marrow, it

      Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind,

      Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,

      Eutropius of its many masters, blind

      To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,

      Fearless, because no feeling dwells in ice;

      Its very courage stagnates to a vice.

      Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,

      For I will never feel them. Italy,

      Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds

      Beneath the lie this state-thing breathed o'er thee.

      Thy

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