Strut their short hour upon this “floating stage.”
In times of yore, as grave old authors write,
Poets possess’d a kind of “second sight,”
And could (tho’, entre nous, ’twas all a hum)
Inform you clearly of “events to come.”
Oh! could the Bard, who, to amuse your time,
Has manufactur’d all this “doggerel rhyme,”
From mortal mists clear his desiring eyes,
And pry into your future destinies:
He would foretell (nor ask you, as a charm,