Pope, as if his claims to speak
Rested on the ancient Greek;
And that prince of merry-men,
Laughing, quaffing, "rare old Ben,"
Whose quaint conceits, so gay, so wild,
Have oft my heart from woe beguil'd,
Shone like a meteor 'midst the throng,
The envy of each son of song.
There too were those of later years,
Who've moved the mind to mirth or tears:
Byron, with his radiant ray--
Scott, with many a magic lay--
The gay and gorgeous minstrel, Moore,
Rich in the charms of Eastern lore--
Campbell, like a brilliant star,
Shed the beams of "Hope" afar--
Rogers, with a smiling eye
Told the joys of "Memory,"
Southey, with his language quaint,
Describing daemon, sinner, saint--
Wordsworth, of the simpler strain,
Clare, the young unletter'd swain--
Wiffen, who in fairy bowers,
Culls blossoms in "Aonian hours,"
Shone like a star in dusky skies,
When first the evening shades arise.
Barton, the gentle bard, was there,
And Hemans, tender as she's fair--
And Croly, whose bright genius beams
Ever on virtue's fairest themes;