Might yet, like this, its little night have sway’d,
And wak’d to extacy the living lyre.
But shrill rehearsal each unprinted page,
Lavish of grins and squalls, did n’er unroll
The hiss contemptuous and the catcall’s rage
Repress’d the great ambition of his soul.
Full many a book, of purest page serene,
The high ungenial cells of Grub-street bear;
Full many a pamphlet leaves the press unseen,