Classic Poem

Silence, ye growling wolves and bears,
And hear the song of Russel!
Hark! how upon Parnassus' hill
This bard kicks up a bustle!

He calls the Muses lying jades,
A pack of venal strumpets:
And reason good; for none of them
The death of David trumpets.

But say——shall Shakspeare's Muse bedew
This David's leaden urn?
Or at his tomb, O Milton! say,
Shall thy Urania mourn?

Shall gentle Spenser's injur'd shade
For him attune the lay?
No! none of these o'er his cold grave
Shall strew one sprig of bay.

For him, the modern Midas, these
No grateful chaplets owe;
Yet shall his friends, with proper bays,
Adorn his heavy brow.

For him shall Russel rant and rave
In hobbling rumbling lays;
And Smith, in barb'rous dreary prose,
Shall grunt and croak his praise.