Macaulay

THE DREAMY rhymer’s measur’d snore Falls heavy on our ears no more; And by long strides are left behind The dear delights of woman-kind, Who win their battles like their loves, In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, And have achiev’d the crowning work When they have truss’d and skewer’d a Turk. Another comes with stouter tread, And stalks among the statelier dead. He rushes on, and hails by turns High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns, And shows the British youth, who ne’er Will lag behind, what Romans were, When all the Tuscans and their Lars Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.