The mighty master of the Northern lyre,
Dowered with a painter’s eye, a poet’s fire,
Scott, spirit-stirring bard to Fancy dear,
Had ne’er endured from him the cutting sneer.
Well had he marked the beauties that belong
To the wild melody of Southey’s song,
(Though strangely destitute of taste and rule);
Nor given this cordial to each rhyming fool,
That if he fall, the same unsparing blow
Had purposed to lay Scott and Southey low.