How many are there who do cheat themselves,
And with themselves the many, that they are
The very vaward leaders of the fray,
The lictors of the pomp of intellect.
Whereas they are the merest driven spray,
The running rabble heralding the march
Impelled by what they herald;—
Who ever glance behind to see which way——
Oh, my prophetick soul! my Aunt Eliza!
[He is stung!