Classic Poem

" Moon-illumined magic-night
Such as can the sense ensnare,
World of legends strange and rare,
Rise, in olden splendour dight! "
Tieck

Troubadour

Dark's the night — no moon's soft ray —
Nowhere gleams one starry spark;
Yet, impelled by love's fond sway,
Roam I through th' uncertain dark,
With my lute and plaintive lay.
When my love from slumbers light
Waking, lights her taper bright,
Then with rapt'rous joy elate,
Gaze I on a star-ornate
" Moon-illumined magic-night! "

Critic.

'Would he'd cease his nightly squall,
Poetaster Helicanus!
What he sings is stolen all
From the fam'd Octavianus,
Whose deserts are wondrous small.
From the Alps to Denmark's air,
Learned men can witness bear
How I've proved his writings written
By a clique with nonsense smitten,
" Such as can the sense ensnare. "

Troubadour.

How that hoarse, rough voice doth bay!
Is 't the shepherd-lad Hornvilla?
Is 't the butcher's — Clement's — bray?
From the window of Camilla
Croaker, take thyself away!
All that critics' pens declare
From the Alps to Denmark's air,
Vent at home, thou void of pity!
Let thy dreamings spare the pretty
" World of legends rich and rare. "

Critic.

Vilely dost thou howl and strum,
Thou, that cut'st our slumbers short,
Call'st thyself the muses' " chum " !
Next, when Phaebus holds his court,
All the chimney-sweeps will come!
Age! when every thoughtful wight
Would not — save in Latin — write,
Age of powdered prim perukes
Crowned with bays by lords and dukes,
" Rise, in olden splendour dight! "