Lo, Della Crusca! In his closet pent, He toils to give the crude conception vent; Abortive thoughts that right and wrong confound, Truth sacrificed to letters, sense to sound, False glare, incongruous images, combine; And noise and nonsense clatter thro' the line. 'Tis done. Her house the generous Piozzi lends, And thither summons her blue stocking'd friends; The summons her blue-stocking'd friends obey, Lured by the love of Poetry — and Tea. The BARD steps forth, in birth-day splendour drest, His right hand graceful waving o'er his breast; His left extending, so that all may see, A roll inscribed "THE WREATH OF LIBERTY." So forth he steps, and with complacent air, Bows round the circle, and assumes the chair: With lemonade he gargles next his throat, Then sweetly preludes to the liquid note: And now 'tis silence all. — GENIUS OR MUSE. Thus while the flowery subject he pursues, A wild delirium round the assembly flies; Unusual lustre shoots from Emma's eyes; Luxurious Arno drivels as he stands; And Anna frisks, and Laura claps her hands.
