XXIV

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XXIV

But, O ye tomes without compare,

Which from the devil’s bookcase start,

Albums magnificent which scare

The fashionable rhymester’s heart!

Yea! although rendered beauteous

By Tolstoy’s pencil marvellous,

Though Baratynski verses penned,

The thunderbolt on you descend!

Whene’er a brilliant courtly dame

Presents her quarto amiably,

Despair and anger seize on me,

And a malicious epigram

Trembles upon my lips from spite⁠—

And madrigals I’m asked to write!