O iron days! O idle raft
Of rhymesters! they are ‘peu de chose,’
What Scott would call supremely “saft”
Your ballades, triolets, rondeaux.
Envoy.
Bards, in whose vein the maddening draught
Of Hippocrene so wildly glows,
Forbear, and do not drive us daft
With ballades, triolets, rondeaux.
The Century.