It is enough to make

Laughter, or tears, gush from the stone.

When, in an island where.

On meadow and copse, could break

Chaucer, that other April; where alone

Earth could conceive and bear

Shakespeare, where Milton reigned on awe-

some throne.

And Dryden governed from more mundane

chair;

All perfect masters of their perfect tools,

And royally skilled to take

From each its utmost yield of service fair,

I am put off with posturing fools

Who in such presences cackle all day of Blake.