His manners mark, and goggle with surprise. 
“He’s wond’rous strange!” exclaims each gaping clod,
“A wond’rous genius, for he’s wond’rous odd!”
Where’er he goes, there goes before his fame,
And courts and taverns echo round his name;
’Till, fairly knocked by admiration down,
The petted monster cracks his wond’rous crown. 
No longer now to simple Nature true,
He studies only to be oddly new;
Whate’er he does, whatever he deigns to say,
Must all be said and done the oddest way;
Nay, e’en in dress eccentrick as in thought,
His wardrobe seems by Lapland witches wrought,
Himself by goblins in a whirlwind drest
With rags of clouds from Hecla’s stormy crest.

‘Has Truth no charms?’ When first beheld, I grant,
But, wanting novelty, has every want: 
For pleasure’s thrill the sickly palate flies,
Save haply pungent with a rare surprise. 
The humble toad that leaps her nightly round,
The harmless tenant of the garden ground,
Is loath’d, abhor’d, nay, all the reptile race
Together join’d were never half so base;
Yet snugly find her in some quarry pent,
Through ages doom’d to one tremendous lent,
Surviving still, as if “in Nature’s spite,”
Without or nourishment, or air, or light,
What raptures then th’ astonish’d gazer seize! 
What lovely creature like a toad can please!

Hence many an oaf, by Nature doom’d to shine
The unknown father of an unknown line,
If haply shipwreck’d on some desert shore
Of Folly’s seas, by man untrod before,
Which, bleak and barren, to the starving mind
Yields nought but fog, or damp, unwholesome wind,
With loud applause the wond’ring world shall hail,
And Fame embalm him in the marv’lous tale.

With chest erect, and bright uplifted eye,
On tiptoe rais’d, like one prepared to fly. 
Yon wight behold, whose sole aspiring hope
Eccentrick soars to catch the hangman’s rope. 
In order rang’d, with date of place and time,
Each owner’s name, his parentage and crime,
High on his walls, inscribed to glorious shame,
Unnumber’d halters gibbet him to Fame.

Who next appears thus stalking by his side? 
Why that is one who’d sooner die than—­ride! 
No inch of ground can maps unheard of show
Untrac’d by him, unknown to every toe: 
As if intent this punning age to suit,
The globe’s circumf’rence meas’ring by the foot.

Nor less renown’d whom stars invet’rate doom
To smiles eternal, or eternal gloom;
For what’s a character save one confin’d
To some unchanging sameness of the mind;
To some strange, fix’d monotony of mien,
Or dress forever brown, forever green?

A sample comes.  Observe his sombre face,
Twin-born with Death, without his brother’s grace! 
No joy in mirth his soul perverted knows,
Whose only joy to tell of others’ woes. 
A fractur’d limb, a conflagrating fire,
A name or fortune lost his tongue inspire: 
From house to house where’er misfortunes press,
Like Fate, he roams, and revels in distress;
In every ear with dismal boding moans—­
walking register of sighs and groans!