To frighten grave professors with his roar,
And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore,
All hail!
Triumphant thou through time’s vast gulf shalt sail,
The pilot of our literary whale;
Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,
Close as a supple courtier to a king;
Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power,
Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.
Nay, though thy Johnson ne’er had blessed thy eyes,