Blunt, Charteris, Hopkins,—meaner subjects fired
The keen-eyed Poet; while the Muse inspired
Her ardent child—entwining, as he sate,
His laurel’d chaplet with the thorns of hate.
But say,—indignant does the Muse retire,
Her shrine deserted, and extinct its fire?
No pious hand to feed the sacred flame,
No raptured soul a poet’s charge to claim?
Bethink thee, Gifford; when some future age
Shall trace the promise of thy playful page;—