Those who sham scorn for Aldermanic lays,
Critics of Cockney song, shall give me praise,

Me, daily, weekly, monthly scribes shall know, Drinkers of tea shall own my deathless fame,

And those for me vain funeral rites disclaim,
Who stimulate their genius with a Go.

XXXIII.

"Like Horace (very like!) I thus beguiled
Myself, while dashed the surge against the shore,

And fierce the tempest raged sublimely wild,
And foaming wave on wave impetuous bore.

I marked afar the sea-bird's rapid flight,

And lightning's glare appalled my startled sight.

XXXIV.

66

Now, with the hurricane my soul was tossed,
When lo! 'tis melancholy as 'tis true,

My hat and wig were in a moment lost,

Borne by the winds feloniously from view;

Whilst their hoarse roar, which now began to scare,

Told that my head, like Neptune's, might go bare.

XXXV.

66

My silk umbrella, with my wig and hat,

Strove to take flight. I scarcely could restrain The struggler, till at last I squeezed it flat,

And put it down, regardless of the rain.

This cooled me-Now, confessed Time's healing balm, I'm for a poet comfortably calm.'

XXXVI.

Feasted by Wiggins, Tom, he knew not why,
Felt very seldom in the mood to write,

Still muttering to himself" Pshaw, put it by,
Why should you make yourself a slave to-night?
With early morn rise-you'll be fitter then."
And so he went to bed, and slept till ten.

XXXVII.

But he reflected welcomes will wear out,
And, notwithstanding the polite assertions

Of joy to see him, he, beyond all doubt,

Had rather flourished by his own exertions:

So he resolved to cudgel hard his brain,

And, as a poet, try his fate again.

XXXVIII.

'Twas difficult to hit upon a plan

That with complacency he could regard, All that could gratify the ear of man,

And give or fame or fortune to the bard, Had been exhausted in the favoured strains Of those who shone the boast of other reigns.

XXXIX.

“Poets of other times! to swell your lay

What treasures burst on your delighted view! Yours the bright landscape-yours the opening day, And yours the copy-right of all the dewYours the fierce monsters of the cheerless plain,

And all the flowerets of soft Flora's train.

XL.

"Yours, too, the glorious sun, the moon, and stars, Yours all the briny ocean comprehends;

While famines, earthquakes, desolating wars,

Grace the bold song, and each a splendour lends,

Which never can descend on modern verse,

Though we such scenes eternally rehearse.