The town is pleas'd when BYRON will rehearse, And finds a thousand beauties in his verse; So fix'd his fame — that write whate'er he will, The patient public must admire it still; Yes, — though bereft of half his force and fire, They still must read — and, dozing, must admire; While you and I, who stick to common sense, To genius, taste, and wit, have no pretence. Throughout the whole we toil to understand; Where'er we tread — 'tis strange, 'tis foreign land; Nay, half the thoughts and language of the strain Require a glossary to make them plain. Beauties there are, which candour bids me own, Atone for these — for more than these atone:— Beauties — which e'en the coldest must admire— Quick, high-wrought passion — true poetic fire— Bold, energetic language — thoughts sublime— And all the artful cadences of rhyme.
