Yet let them not to vulgar WORDSWORTH [138] stoop, The meanest object of the lowly group, Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, Seems blessed harmony to LAMB and LLOYD: [139] Let them--but hold, my Muse, nor dare to teach A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach: The native genius with their being given Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 910 And thou, too, SCOTT! [140] resign to minstrels rude The wilder Slogan of a Border feud: Let others spin their meagre lines for hire; Enough for Genius, if itself inspire! Let SOUTHEY sing, altho' his teeming muse, [lxiii] Prolific every spring, be too profuse; Let simple WORDSWORTH [141] chime his childish verse, And brother COLERIDGE lull the babe at nurse [lxiv] Let Spectre-mongering LEWIS aim, at most, [lxv] To rouse the Galleries, or to raise a ghost; 920 Let MOORE still sigh; let STRANGFORD steal from MOORE, [lxvi] And swear that CAMOËNS sang such notes of yore; Let HAYLEY hobble on, MONTGOMERY rave, And godly GRAHAME chant a stupid stave; Let sonneteering BOWLES [142] his strains refine, And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line; Let STOTT, CARLISLE, [143] MATILDA, and the rest Of Grub Street, and of Grosvenor Place the best, Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain, Or Common Sense assert her rights again; 930 But Thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, Should'st leave to humbler Bards ignoble lays: Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine, Demand a hallowed harp--that harp is thine. Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield The glorious record of some nobler field, Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man? Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food For SHERWOOD'S outlaw tales of ROBIN HOOD? [lxvii] 940 Scotland! still proudly claim thy native Bard, And be thy praise his first, his best reward! Yet not with thee alone his name should live, But own the vast renown a world can give; Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, And tell the tale of what she was before; To future times her faded fame recall, And save her glory, though his country fall. Yet what avails the sanguine Poet's hope, To conquer ages, and with time to cope? 950 New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, And other Victors fill th' applauding skies; [144] A few brief generations fleet along, Whose sons forget the Poet and his song: E'en now, what once-loved Minstrels scarce may claim The transient mention of a dubious name! When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast, Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last; And glory, like the Phoenix [145] midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 960