THE DREAMY rhymer’s measur’d snore <br />Falls heavy on our ears no more; <br />And by long strides are left behind <br />The dear delights of woman-kind, <br />Who win their battles like their loves, <br />In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, <br />And have achiev’d the crowning work <br />When they have truss’d and skewer’d a Turk. <br />Another comes with stouter tread, <br />And stalks among the statelier dead. <br />He rushes on, and hails by turns <br />High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns, <br />And shows the British youth, who ne’er <br />Will lag behind, what Romans were, <br />When all the Tuscans and their Lars <br />Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.<br /><br />Walter Savage Landor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/macaulay/
