Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, [34] That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May, Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and trouble, And quit his books, for fear of growing double;" [35] 240 Who, both by precept and example, shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose; Convincing all, by demonstration plain, Poetic souls delight in prose insane; And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme Contain the essence of the true sublime. Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of "an idiot Boy;" A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, And, like his bard, confounded night with day [36] 250 So close on each pathetic part he dwells, And each adventure so sublimely tells, That all who view the "idiot in his glory" Conceive the Bard the hero of the story. Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here, [37] To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? Though themes of innocence amuse him best, Yet still Obscurity's a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a Pixy for a muse, [38] 260 Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegize an ass: So well the subject suits his noble mind, [xvii] He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind. [xviii] Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! [39] Monk, or Bard, Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard! [xix] Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, Thy Muse a Sprite, Apollo's sexton thou! Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, By gibb'ring spectres hailed, thy kindred band; 270 Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, To please the females of our modest age; All hail, M.P.! [40] from whose infernal brain Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train; At whose command "grim women" throng in crowds, And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, With "small grey men,"--"wild yagers," and what not, To crown with honour thee and WALTER SCOTT: Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please, St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease: 280 Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, And in thy skull discern a deeper Hell. Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed? 'Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day, As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay! Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just, Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 290 Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns; From grosser incense with disgust she turns Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er, She bids thee "mend thy line, and sin no more." [xx]