No Louder Shrieks To Pitying Heaven Are

For Critics, As They Are Birds Of Prey, Have Ever A Natural Inclination To Carrion.

See The Wild Waste Of All-devouring Years! How Rome Her Own Sad Sepulchre Appears, With Nodding Arches, Broken Temples Spread! The Very Tombs Now Vanish'd Like Their Dead!

Then, At The Last And Only Couplet Fraught With Some Unmeaning Thing They Call A Thought, A Needless Alexandrine Ends The Song, That, Like A Wounded Snake, Drags Its Slow Length Along.

Like Following Life Through Creatures You Dissect, You Lose It In The Moment You Detect.

Is There No Bright Reversion In The Sky, For Those Who Greatly Think Or Bravely Die?