to the Muse!
When Bartlett from his study height unfurled
thine heaven-born hues,
The quotes were here, the quotes were there,
the quotes were all around,
For Bartlett like a poultice came to blow the
heels of sound.

Pernicious habit! One becomes a worse than
senseless block,
A bard that no one dares to praise and fewer
care to knock;
A sentence by a mossy stone, of quaint and
curious lore,
An apt quotation is to one and it is nothing
more.

Quotation! Ah, thou droppest as the gentle
rain from heaven,
Thy brow is wet with honest sweat and the
stars on thy head are seven.

Who steals my verse steals trash, for, soothly,
he who runs may read,
But he who filches from me Bartlett leaves
me poor indeed.

I fill this cup to Bartlett up, and may he rest
in peace--
From Afric's sunny fountains to the happy