This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!
But these remarks are neither here nor there.
Where was I? Oh, I see—old Southey's dead!
They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair,
And drain the annual butt—and oh, what head
More fit with laurel to be garlanded
Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil,
Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?
I know a grace is seated on my brow,
Like young Apollo's with his golden beams