Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart,
And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect
Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect;
There was ne’er a man born who had more of the swing
Of the true lyric bard, and all that kind of thing;
And his failures arise (though he seem not to know it)
From the very same cause that has made him a poet—
A fervour of mind which knows no separation
’Twixt simple excitement and pure inspiration,
As my pythoness erst sometimes erred from not knowing