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LXXXIII.

But other bards are present, let them sing

Of such as these; each condescending Muse

Shall teach her fondling how t' awake each string,

And tinge each mouthful with ambrosial hues,

And keep him very well in boots and shoes.

Here some dwarfed harmless poetaster rhymes

Whose very name gives list'ning fools the “blues,”

Not only here, alas in other climes,

Which must not be, of course, in these prolific times.

LXXXIV.

There's Francis Palgrave, there's Rosetti too;

Trill on, ye two, the song of future years,

Move, Palgrave, move, with bosom rent anew,

An audience multitudinous to tears;

Scratch on with quill unwearied and no fears,

The world shall fling thee thy resplendent bays,

For Popular Opinion safely steers

His barque upon the river of thy praise.

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