Sang of Watt Tyler, bold and free;
Until the owls who love the night,
Beheld and curbed his upward flight.
Unfriended, poor, unsteady, young,
He yielded to temptation strong;
Like you, he snatched the golden bait,
And lost all view of Heaven’s gate;
Blew every spring a clarion note
By which he seemed to clear his throat,
Which dwindled down to bathos weak,