![]() ![]() The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, Like Samuel from the grave to freeze once more Think’st thou, could he, the blind old man, arise He did not loathe the sire to laud the son, He deigned not to belie his soul in songs, If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongsĪnd makes the word Miltonic mean sublime, To–God knows where–for no one else can know. Has generally no great crop to spare it, heĪnd although here and there some glorious rarityĪrise like Titan from the sea’s immersion, (Who does not often claim the bright reversion) He that reserves his laurels for posterity ![]() Is not the certain path to future praise. In giving to his brethren their full meed ![]() The fame you envy and the skill you need. I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will tryįor me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,Ĭontend not with you on the winged’ steed, Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow. Perhaps some virtuous blushes let them go.Īnd for the fame you would engross below, Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows, You’re shabby fellows–true–but poets still You have your salary was’t for that you wrought?Īnd Wordsworth has his place in the Excise. Since gold alone should not have been its price. Which makes me wish you’d change your lakes for ocean.įor all the glory your conversion brought, Of one another’s minds at last have grown ![]() Has given a sample from the vasty versionĪnd may appear so when the Dog Star rages,Īt Keswick, and through still continued fusion (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages) Gasping on deck, because you soar too high,īob, And fall for lack of moisture quite a dry Bob.Īnd Wordsworth in a rather long Excursion Or Regent, who admires such kind of food.īut like a hawk encumbered with his hood, (This old song and new simile holds good), Which pye being opened they began to sing’ Like four and twenty blackbirds in a pye, With all the lakers, in and out of place? Last, yours has lately been a common case. One thing to note is the rhyming scheme, which repeatedly suggests that Byron was imposing British pronunciation ( joo-wun) on the subject’s Spanish name.īob Southey! You’re a poet, poet laureate,Īlthough ’tis true that you turned out a Tory at Don Juan is a lengthy poem which satirizes the legend of Don Juan, storied Spanish womanizer - recasting Juan as the victim. ![]()
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