And the firm knock which says, ‘I know you’re there,’
Nor quake at portents which so oft before
Have been the heralds of the ten-inch bore?
“He enters, and he sits, as crowners sit,
On the dead bodies of our time and wit;
Hopes that no plan of yours he comes to balk,
And grinds the hurdy-gurdy of his talk
In steady circles, meaningless and flat
As the broad brim that rounds a bishop’s hat.
Nature, didst thou endow him with a voice,