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Bob, And fall for lack of moisture quite a dry Bob.
In giving to his brethren their full meed
The fame you envy and the skill you need.
Contend not with you on the winged' steed,
States to be curbed and thoughts to be confined,
To lengthen fetters by another fixed
And offer poison long already mixed.
Something of which its masters are afraid,
Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind,
And botching, patching, leaving still behind
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind,
Eutropius of its many masters, blind
If we may judge of matter by the mind,
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food.
(This old song and new simile holds good),
But like a hawk encumbered with his hood,
With all the lakers, in and out of place?
And representative of all the race.
Fearless, because no feeling dwells in ice;
Since gold alone should not have been its price.
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
Its very courage stagnates to a vice.
Conspiracy or congress to be made,
A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
Beneath the lie this state-thing breathed o'er thee.
Has generally no great crop to spare it, he
And he who understands it would be able
Nor foes--all nations--condescend to smile.
Ineffably, legitimately vile,
Milton appealed to the avenger, Time,
And makes the word Miltonic mean sublime,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime.
Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me.
That poesy has wreaths for you alone.
Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,
Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore,
Like Samuel from the grave to freeze once more
With just enough of talent and no more,
Last, yours has lately been a common case.
An orator of such set trash of phrase,
Is not the certain path to future praise.
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.
Think'st thou, could he, the blind old man, arise
Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate
And if in flattering strains I do not predicate,
My politics as yet are all to educate.
To keep one creed's a task grown quite
Tis that I still retain my buff and blue;
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like four and twenty blackbirds in a pye,
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze
A dainty dish to set before the King'
Which pye being opened they began to sing'
And Coleridge too has lately taken wing,
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high,
And be the only blackbird in the dish.
And tumble downward like the flying fish
At being disappointed in your wish
To add a story to the tower of Babel.
From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,
And duly seated on the immortal hill.
Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still,
You're shabby fellows--true--but poets still
And Southey lives to sing them very ill.
Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.
Herculean Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,
(Who does not often claim the bright reversion)
Has given a sample from the vasty version
And Wordsworth in a rather long Excursion
At Keswick, and through still continued fusion
You gentlemen, by dint of long seclusion
To deem, as a most logical conclusion,
I wish he would explain his explanation.
Explaining metaphysics to the nation.
Of endless torments and perpetual motion.
That turns and turns to give the world a notion
There is a narrowness in such a notion,
Being only injured by his own assertion.
Tis poetry, at least by his assertion,
He did not loathe the sire to laud the son,
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.
Of one another's minds at last have grown
From better company, have kept your own
Perhaps some virtuous blushes; let them go.
The major part of such appellants go
Apostasy's so fashionable too,
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
Or be alive again--again all hoar
And heartless daughters--worn and pale and poor,
Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
Thy clanking chain and Erin's yet green wounds
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages)
And may appear so when the Dog Star rages,
Of his new system to perplex the sages.
The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
And recollect a poet nothing loses
I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
If fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
With time and trials, and those helpless eyes
If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs
He deigned not to belie his soul in songs,
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs,
With God and man's abhorrence for its gains.
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
The field is universal and allows
Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows,
Of merit, and complaint of present days
And now my epic renegade, what are ye at
Although 'tis true that you turned out a Tory at
I would not imitate the petty thought,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
You have your salary; was't for that you wrought?
Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
Emasculated to the marrow, it
To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,
The vulgarest tool that tyranny could want,
In honest simple verse this song to you.
To supersede all warblers here below,
And for the fame you would engross below,
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow.
To--God knows where--for no one else can know.
You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know,
Would he adore a sultan? He obey
For I will never feel them. Italy,
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try
And although here and there some glorious rarity
He that reserves his laurels for posterity
Gainst you the question with posterity.
States to be curbed and thoughts to be confined,
Something of which its masters are afraid,
To lengthen fetters by another fixed
And offer poison long already mixed.
Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind,
And botching, patching, leaving still behind
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind,
Eutropius of its many masters, blind
If we may judge of matter by the mind,
Fearless, because no feeling dwells in ice;
Its very courage stagnates to a vice.
Conspiracy or congress to be made,
A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
Beneath the lie this state-thing breathed o'er thee.
Nor foes--all nations--condescend to smile.
Ineffably, legitimately vile,
Milton appealed to the avenger, Time,
And makes the word Miltonic mean sublime,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime.
Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me.
Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,
Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore,
Like Samuel from the grave to freeze once more
With just enough of talent and no more,
An orator of such set trash of phrase,
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,
Think'st thou, could he, the blind old man, arise
Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate
And if in flattering strains I do not predicate,
My politics as yet are all to educate.
To keep one creed's a task grown quite
Tis that I still retain my buff and blue;
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?
From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,
Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still,
And Southey lives to sing them very ill.
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,
Of endless torments and perpetual motion.
That turns and turns to give the world a notion
Being only injured by his own assertion.
He did not loathe the sire to laud the son,
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.
The major part of such appellants go
Apostasy's so fashionable too,
Or be alive again--again all hoar
And heartless daughters--worn and pale and poor,
Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
Thy clanking chain and Erin's yet green wounds
The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
If fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
With time and trials, and those helpless eyes
If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs
He deigned not to belie his soul in songs,
With God and man's abhorrence for its gains.
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
Emasculated to the marrow, it
To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,
The vulgarest tool that tyranny could want,
In honest simple verse this song to you.
To--God knows where--for no one else can know.
Would he adore a sultan? He obey
For I will never feel them. Italy,
In giving to his brethren their full meed
The fame you envy and the skill you need.
Contend not with you on the winged' steed,
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food.
(This old song and new simile holds good),
But like a hawk encumbered with his hood,
Bob, And fall for lack of moisture quite a dry Bob.
With all the lakers, in and out of place?
And representative of all the race.
Since gold alone should not have been its price.
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
Has generally no great crop to spare it, he
And he who understands it would be able
That poesy has wreaths for you alone.
Last, yours has lately been a common case.
Is not the certain path to future praise.
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.
Bob Southey! You're a poet, poet laureate,
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like four and twenty blackbirds in a pye,
A dainty dish to set before the King'
Which pye being opened they began to sing'
And Coleridge too has lately taken wing,
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high,
And be the only blackbird in the dish.
And tumble downward like the flying fish
At being disappointed in your wish
To add a story to the tower of Babel.
And duly seated on the immortal hill.
You're shabby fellows--true--but poets still
Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.
(Who does not often claim the bright reversion)
Has given a sample from the vasty version
And Wordsworth in a rather long Excursion
At Keswick, and through still continued fusion
You gentlemen, by dint of long seclusion
To deem, as a most logical conclusion,
I wish he would explain his explanation.
Explaining metaphysics to the nation.
There is a narrowness in such a notion,
Tis poetry, at least by his assertion,
Of one another's minds at last have grown
From better company, have kept your own
Perhaps some virtuous blushes; let them go.
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages)
And may appear so when the Dog Star rages,
Of his new system to perplex the sages.
I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
The field is universal and allows
Of merit, and complaint of present days
And now my epic renegade, what are ye at
Although 'tis true that you turned out a Tory at
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow.
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try
And although here and there some glorious rarity
He that reserves his laurels for posterity
Gainst you the question with posterity.
And recollect a poet nothing loses
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs,
Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows,
I would not imitate the petty thought,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
You have your salary; was't for that you wrought?
To supersede all warblers here below,
And for the fame you would engross below,
You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know,