Classic Poem

Some famous authors trade in mental sleep,
Lulling grown babies with a printed beebee:
Profound the learn'd them call, the vulgar deep:
Though o'er their pages none can laugh or weep,
And dull as coffin'd dust may he or she be,
Their dear no-meaning sells, and that's enough:
If I don't understand Sir Riddle's stuff,
Sir Riddles does — how clever, then, must he be!
At shrines whose mysteries have gods of wood,
The age-long pilgrimage brings crowds to pray;
But in a month, a fortnight, or a day,
Dead drops th' immortal who is understood!
Clear as the chrystal pane that fronts the north,
His worth is seen through, therefore nothing worth.