Or sing a baby’s lullaby.
But hark! he coos like cushat dove,
Of “Enoch Arden’s” puling love.
This ‘masterpiece’ becomes the rage
Of idlers in an earnest age;
Is puffed and lauded to the skies,
(How true, that “dullness never dies!”)
As if its author’s powers might cope
With those of Milton, Dryden, Pope;
And e’en the great Republic chimes