Lord! they had much to do,—
They were so many!
Buoy’d on a sea of fancy, Genius rises,
And like the rare Leviathan surprises;
But the small fry of scribblers!—tiny souls!
They wriggle thro’ the mud in shoals.
It would have raise’d a smile to see the faces
They made, and the ridiculous grimaces,
At many an author, as they overhaul’d him.
They gave no quarter to a calf,