With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern Lights.
He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your nation
(There’s no doubt that he stands in supreme ice-olation);
Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on,
But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on;
He’s too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on;
Unqualified merits, I’ll grant, if you choose, he has ’em,
But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm;
If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul,