And empty all thy quiver on the foe:—

40

No pause—no rest—till weltering on the ground

The poisonous hydra lies, and pierced with many a wound.

Thou too!—the nameless Bard,[[311]]—whose honest zeal

For law, for morals, for the public weal,

Pours down impetuous on thy country’s foes

The stream of verse, and many-languaged prose;

Thou too! though oft thy ill-advised dislike

The guiltless head with random censure strike,—