To disentangle, from the imping wings
Of our young poets, their crustaceous slough.
I watch them, as the watcher on the brook
Sees the young salmon wrestling from its egg,
And revels in its future bright career.
Ha! what seraphic melody is this?
Enter Sancho, a Costermonger, singing.
Down in the garden behind the wall,
Merrily grows the bright-green leek;
The old sow grunts as the acorns fall,