The half-starved student o'er their leaves shall pore;
For them no longer blaze the midnight oil,
Their sun is set, and sinks to rise no more.
For them no more shall booksellers contend,
Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim;
Beneath their weight no more the press shall bend,
While common-sense stands wondering at their fame.
Oft did the Classics mourn their Critic rage,
While still they found each meaning but the true;
Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid's page,