Two Poets (poets, by report,
Not oft so well agree),
Sweet harmonist of Flora’s court!
Conspire to honour thee.
They best can judge a poet’s worth,
Who oft themselves have known
The pangs of a poetic birth
By labours of their own.
We therefore pleased, extol thy song,
Though various, yet complete,
Rich in embellishment as strong,
And learned as ‘tis sweet.
No envy mingles with our praise,
Though, could our hearts repine
At any poet’s happier lays,
They would—they must at thine.
But we, in mutual bondage knit
Of friendship’s closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin’s wit
With an unjaundiced eye;
And deem the Bard, whoe’er he be,
And howsoever known,
Who would not twine a wreath for thee,
Unworthy of his own.