Are we indeed but a barbarous nation of
Philistines treating our poets with scorn?
Are we contemptuous, then, in reality,
Of the effusions our lyricists write—
Singing sweet songs of the Modern Morality,
Praising each other from morning to night?
Modesty, clearly, is somehow availing to
Burke them of glory which should be their own,
Modesty, morbid, excessive—a failing to
Which, it's notorious, poets are prone.