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.
