Had warbled erst to rapt attentive ears.
E'en Milton's billowy ocean of high sound,
Delighted little, though it might astound;
The restless crowd impatient turn'd away,
And sought a shorter, shriller, lighter lay.

Yet Dryden nobly earn'd the poet's name,
And won new honours from the gift of fame.
His life was long, and when his head was grey,
His fortune broken, and usurp'd his bay,
His dauntless genius own'd no cold dismay;
Nor in repining notes of vain regret
He made his crack'd pipe pitifully fret.
But when cashier'd and laid upon the shelf,

To shame the court excell'd his former self,

Who meant to clip, but imp'd his moulted wings,
And cured him of his ancient itch of praising kings.
He sat gigantic on the shore of time,

And watch'd the ingress of encroaching slime,
Nor dream'd how much of evil or of good
Might work amid the far unfathom'd flood.

-HARTLEY COLERIDGE

ALEXANDER POPE

1688-1744