and cranks on the part of Byron. This "Dedication" was not
published until after the author's death.

I.

Bob Southey! You're a poet--Poet-laureate,
And representative of all the race;
Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory
Last--yours has lately been a common case--
And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like "four-and-twenty Blackbirds in a pie;

II.

"Which pie being open'd they began to sing"
(This old song and new simile holds good),
"A dainty dish to set before the King",
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food--
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood--
Explaining metaphysics to the nation--
I wish he would explain his Explanation.

III.

You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,
And be the only blackbird in the dish;
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
And tumble downward like the flying fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,
And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob!

IV.

And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion"
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages),
Has given a sample from the vasty version
Of his new system to perplex the sages;
'Tis poetry--at least by his assertion,
And may appear so when the dog-star rages--
And he who understands it would be able
To add a story to the Tower of Babel.

V.

You--Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion
From better company, have kept your own
At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion
Of one another's minds, at last have grown
To deem as a most logical conclusion,
That Poesy has wreaths for you alone;
There is a narrowness in such a notion,
Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.

VI.

I would not imitate the petty thought,
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
Since gold alone should not have been its price,
You have your salary; was't for that you wrought?
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise!
You're shabby fellows--true--but poets still,
And duly seated on the immortal hill.

VII.

Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows--
Perhaps some virtuous blushes, let them go--