Better than ever before any minstrel in chamber had chanted.
Never on mountain or wild hath echo so cheerfully sounded,
Never did monarch bestow such glorious meeds upon knighthood,
Never had monarch the power, liberality, justice, discretion.
Byron liked new-papered rooms, and pull'd down old wainscot of cedar;
Bright-color'd prints he preferr'd to the graver cartoons of a Raphael,
Sailor and Turk (with a sack,) to Eginate and Parthenon marbles,
Splendid the palace he rais'd—the gin-palace in Poesy's purlieus;
Soft the divan on the sides, with spittoons for the qualmish and queesy.
Wordsworth, well pleas'd with himself, cared little for modern or ancient.