Being rather themselves a fresh standard of grace,
To compute their own judge, and assign him his place,
Our reviewer would crawl all about it and round it,
And, reporting each circumstance just as he found it, 220
Without the least malice,—­his record would be
Profoundly aesthetic as that of a flea,
Which, supping on Wordsworth, should print for our sakes,
Recollections of nights with the Bard of the Lakes,
Or, lodged by an Arab guide, ventured to render a
Comprehensive account of the ruins at Denderah.

As I said, he was never precisely unkind. 
The defect in his brain was just absence of mind;
If he boasted, ’twas simply that he was self-made,
A position which I, for one, never gainsaid, 230
My respect for my Maker supposing a skill
In his works which our Hero would answer but ill;
And I trust that the mould which he used may be cracked, or he,
Made bold by success, may enlarge his phylactery,
And set up a kind of a man-manufactory,—­
An event which I shudder to think about, seeing
That Man is a moral, accountable being.

He meant well enough, but was still in the way,
As dunces still are, let them be where they may;
Indeed, they appear to come into existence 240
To impede other folks with their awkward assistance;
If you set up a dunce on the very North pole
All alone with himself, I believe, on my soul,
He’d manage to get betwixt somebody’s shins,
And pitch him down bodily, all in his sins,
To the grave polar bears sitting round on the ice,
All shortening their grace, to be in for a slice;
Or, if he found nobody else there to pother,
Why, one of his legs would just trip up the other,
For there’s nothing we read of in torture’s inventions, 250
Like a well-meaning dunce, with the best of intentions.

A terrible fellow to meet in society,
Not the toast that he buttered was ever so dry at tea;
There he’d sit at the table and stir in his sugar,
Crouching close for a spring, all the while, like a cougar;
Be sure of your facts, of your measures and weights,
Of your time,—­he’s as fond as an Arab of dates;
You’ll be telling, perhaps, in your comical way,
Of something you’ve seen in the course of the day;
And, just as you’re tapering out the conclusion, 260
You venture an ill-fated classic allusion,—­
The girls have all got their laughs ready, when, whack! 
The cougar comes down on your thunderstruck back! 
You had left out a comma,—­your Greek’s put in joint,
And pointed at cost of your story’s whole point. 
In the course of the evening, you find chance for certain
Soft speeches to Anne, in the shade of the curtain: 
You tell her your heart can be likened to one flower,
’And that, O most charming of women, ’s the sunflower,
Which turns’—­here a clear nasal voice, to your terror, 270
From outside the curtain, says, ‘That’s