Shall not avail you when the day-beam sports
New-risen o'er awakened Albion—No,
Nor yet your solemn organ-pipes that blow
Melodious thunders through your vacant courts
At morn and even; for your manner sorts
Not with this age, nor with the thoughts that roll,
Because the words of little children preach
Against you,—ye that did profess to teach
And have taught nothing, feeding on the soul.