Is wearied with the flood of praise.
In glowing fame, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,
You are so dead to simple things,
You needs must play such pranks as these.
Alfred, Alfred Vere de Vere,
If Time be heavy on your hands,
Are there no toilers in our streets,
Nor any poor in all these lands?
Oh! teach the weak to strive and hope,