‘The languid heart that hath been ever nursed
By strains of drowsy sweetness, ill can brook
The rude rough music that at times doth burst
From him whose thoughts are treasured in this book.
It was his lot to live in days uncouth
That shrink from aught so hard and stern as Truth.
I know my generous friend too well to fear
This holy gift will be unsafe with thee:
Thou never yet hast had the heart to sneer
At the eccentric feats of chivalry;