What wondrous labours of the press and pen;

Diurnal most, some thrice each week affords,

Some only once, - O avarice of words!

When thousand starving minds such manna seek,

To drop the precious food but once a week.

Endless it were to sing the powers of all,

Their names, their numbers; how they rise and fall:

Like baneful herbs the gazer’s eye they seize,

Rush to the head, and poison where they please:

Like idle flies, a busy, buzzing train,