Here dwells the last arbitrament of art.

How great is he? Is that one large or small?

Here is the wanton poet made to smart,

Here the uncurbed romancer takes his fall;

Here they deal faithfully with Squiff and Noggs

And here (for dinners) puff Sir Roller Loggs.

Fresh every day, when dawn makes Highbrow Hill

Softened and rosy, blithe and gentle and sweet,

The Intellectuals their quivers fill

With poisonous darts, to fire from safe retreat.