The Bard aroused me from my dream
Of pity, alias self-esteem,
And thus indignant caroll'd:--

"O thou, who thus in numbers pert
And petulant, presum'st to flirt
With Memory's Nine Daughters:
Whose verse the next trade-winds that blow
Down narrow Paternoster-row
Shall 'whelm in Lethe's waters:

"Slight is the difference I see
Between yon Paduan youth and thee:
He moulds, of Pans plaster,
An urn by classic Chantrey's laws,--
And thou a literary vase
Of would-be alabaster.

"Were I to arbitrate betwixt
His terra cotta, plain or mix'd,
And thy earth-gender'd sonnet;
Small cause has he th' award to dread:--
Thy Images are in the head,
And his, poor boy, are on it!"

_New Monthly Magazine._

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