Were clever wise, were grandiose great,
How many a servant of the State
Had left a more enduring name.
But all is not for all; 'tis far
From flaming meteor to fixed star,
From notoriety to fame.

Picturesque son of brilliant sire,
It wanted but the touch of fire
Prometheus only knows to bring
The flame divine in him to wake
Who moved our plaudits when he spake,
But stirred no passion when he'd sing.

The Orient pageantry he loved,
The histrio not the hero moved,
The _dilettante_ not the sage.
Hence in our England's East his hand
Turned, in a story sternly grand,
A motley mock-heroic page.

He by the Seine found fitter place
For courtly wit and modish grace,
Than by the Indus. There right well
His facile talent served his Chief;
And England hears with genuine grief
That sudden-sounding passing bell.

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