Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 6.djvu/35

Rh 'T is 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—