Mount, in a brighter blaze, and dazzle with Homerics.

Then, while my name runs ringing through Reviews,
And maids, wives, widows, smitten with my Muse,
Assail me with Platonic _billet-doux_.
From this suburban attic I'll dismount,
With Coutts or Barclays open an account;
Ranged in my mirror, cards, with burnish'd ends,
Shall show the whole nobility my friends;
That happy host with whom I choose to dine,
Shall make set-parties, give his-choicest wine;
And age and infancy shall gape to see
The lucky bard, and whisper "That is he!"

Poor youth! he print--and wakes, _to sleep no more_--
The world goes on, indifferent, as before;
And the first notice of his metric skill
Comes in the likeness of--his printer's bill;
To pen soft notes no fair enthusiast stirs,
Except his laundress--and who values her's?
None but herself: for though the bard may burn
Her _note_, she still expects one in return.
The luckless maiden, all unblest shall sigh;
His pocket _tome_ hath drawn his pockets dry.
His tragedy expires in peals of laughter;
And that soul-thrilling wish--to live hereafter--
Gives way to one as hopeless quite, I fear,
And far more needful--how to _live while here_.
Where are ye now, divine illusions all;
Cheques, dinners, wines, admirers great and small!