With uncouth words they tire their tender lungs,
The same bald phrases on their hundred tongues;
‘Ever’ ‘The Ages’ in their page appear,
‘Alway’ the bedlamite is called a ‘Seer;’
On every leaf the ‘earnest’ sage may scan,
Portentious bore! their ‘many-sided’ man;
A weak eclectic, groping, vague and dim,
Whose every angle is a half-starved whim,
Blind as a mole and curious as a lynx,
Who rides a beetle which he calls a ‘Sphinx.’