You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know At being disappointed in your wish To supersede all warblers here below, And be the only blackbird in the dish; And then you overstrain yourself, or so, And tumble downward like the flying fish Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob! IV. And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion" (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages), Has given a sample from the vasty version Of his new system to perplex the sages; 'Tis poetry--at least by his assertion, And may appear so when the dog-star rages-- And he who understands it would be able To add a story to the Tower of Babel. V. You--Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion From better company, have kept your own At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion Of one another's minds, at last have grown To deem as a most logical conclusion, That Poesy has wreaths for you alone; There is a narrowness in such a notion, Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean. VI. I would not imitate the petty thought, Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, For all the glory your conversion brought, Since gold alone should not have been its price, You have your salary; was't for that you wrought? And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise! You're shabby fellows--true--but poets still, And duly seated on the immortal hill. VII. Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows-- Perhaps some virtuous blushes, let them go-- To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs, And for the fame you would engross below, The field is universal, and allows Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow; Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try 'Gainst you the question with posterity. VIII. For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, Contend not with you on the winged steed, I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, The fame you envy and the skill you need; And recollect a poet nothing loses In giving to his brethren their full meed Of merit, and complaint of present days Is not the certain path to future praise. IX. He that reserves his laurels for posterity (Who does not often claim the bright reversion) Has generally no great crop to spare it, he Being only injured by his own assertion; And although here and there some glorious rarity Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, The major part of such appellants go To--God knows where--for no one else can know. X. If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, Milton appealed to the Avenger, Time, If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs, And makes the word "Miltonic" mean "_sublime_", _He_ deign'd not to belie his soul in songs, Nor turn his very talent to a crime; _He_ did not loathe the sire to laud the son, But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. XI.