 | The heir of the world, and lesser poems |  |
SONNET I.
O'erweening dotard! poor cornuto, hail!Man of miscarried Letters! Southern sage!
All do admire thy deep poetic rage,
And thy rich verse that soundeth like a flail:
The dark researcher doth adore thy page,
And all that dwell in antiquarian mould,
And all that grope for interdicted gold,—
For mystery is all their heritage!
Ho for a beaker! ye minores! kneel!
The man of seals and stamps and rhymes draws nigh
In all the fury of his majesty—
The very air his presence seems to feel!
Marquis of France! thy Eulogist doth come
With the deep music of his kettle drum!
| The heir of the world, and lesser poems | |