Their loyal treason, renegado rigour,
Are good manure for their more bare biography;
Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger
Than any since the birthday of typography;
A drowsy, frowzy poem, called the "Excursion,"
Writ in a manner which is my aversion.
XCV.
He there builds up a formidable dyke
Between his own and others' intellect;
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like