. The book of ballads . ny other bam. Novels three-vohimed I shall write no more—Somehow or other now they will not sell: And to invent new passions is a bore—I find the Magazines pay quite as simple, too, as I can tell, ^Miove hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own. Moore, Campbell, ^Aordsworth, their best dajs are grassed ;Battered and broken are their early lyres. Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfields martyr , worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires. But these are things wo
. The book of ballads . ny other bam. Novels three-vohimed I shall write no more—Somehow or other now they will not sell: And to invent new passions is a bore—I find the Magazines pay quite as simple, too, as I can tell, ^Miove hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own. Moore, Campbell, ^Aordsworth, their best dajs are grassed ;Battered and broken are their early lyres. Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfields martyr , worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires. But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherrys greatly better. A fico for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these ! Shall they compete with him who wrote Maltravers,Prologue to Alice or the Mysteries ?No ! Even now my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about. What ho, within there, ho! another pint of Stout! ^It fejj& ,,r 9k 9 )Dorm. Like one who, waking from a troublous dream, Pursues with force his meditative theme ; Calm as the ocean in its halc^^on still. Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill; Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen To rend his robes in agonies serene ; Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore To all that lived behind him, and before ; Calm as meek Calvin, when, ?\\ith holy smile. He sang the mass around Servetus pile,— So once again I snatch this harp of mine. To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine. Not now to whisper to the ambient air The sounds of Satans Universal Prayer ; Not now to sinp, in sweet domestic strife That woman reigns the Angel of our life ; But to proclaim the wish with pious art. Which thrills through Britains universal heart,— That on this brow, with native honours graced, The Laureates chaplet should at length be placed ! f THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 141 Fear not, ye maids, who love to bear me speak ;Let no desponding tears bedi
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