’There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge,
Three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge,
Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters,
In a way to make people of common sense damn metres, 1300
Who has written some things quite the best of their kind,
But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the mind,
Who—­But hey-day!  What’s this?  Messieurs Mathews and Poe,
You mustn’t fling mud-balls at Longfellow so,
Does it make a man worse that his character’s such
As to make his friends love him (as you think) too much? 
Why, there is not a bard at this moment alive
More willing than he that his fellows should thrive;
While you are abusing him thus, even now
He would help either one of you out of a slough; 1310
You may say that he’s smooth and all that till you’re hoarse,
But remember that elegance also is force;
After polishing granite as much as you will,
The heart keeps its tough old persistency still;
Deduct all you can, that still keeps you at bay;
Why, he’ll live till men weary of Collins and Gray. 
I’m not over-fond of Greek metres in English,
To me rhyme’s a gain, so it be not too jinglish,
And your modern hexameter verses are no more
Like Greek ones than sleek Mr. Pope is like Homer; 1320
As the roar of the sea to the coo of a pigeon is,
So, compared to your moderns, sounds old Melesigenes;
I may be too partial, the reason, perhaps, o’t is
That I’ve heard the old blind man recite his own rhapsodies,
And my ear with that music impregnate may be,
Like the poor exiled shell with the soul of the sea,
Or as one can’t bear Strauss when his nature is cloven
To its deeps within deeps by the stroke of Beethoven;
But, set that aside, and ’tis truth that I speak,
Had Theocritus written in English, not Greek, 1330
I believe that his exquisite sense would scarce change a line
In that rare, tender, virgin-like pastoral Evangeline. 
That’s not ancient nor modern, its place is apart
Where time has no sway, in the realm of pure Art,
’Tis a shrine of retreat from Earth’s hubbub and strife
As quiet and chaste as the author’s own life.

There comes Philothea, her face all aglow,
She has just been dividing some poor creature’s woe,
And can’t tell which pleases her most, to relieve
His want, or his story to hear and believe; 1340
No doubt against many deep griefs she prevails,
For her ear is the refuge of destitute tales;
She knows well that silence is sorrow’s best food,
And that talking draws off from the heart its black blood,
So she’ll listen with patience and let you unfold
Your bundle of rags as ’twere pure cloth of gold,
Which, indeed, it all turns to as soon as she’s touched it,
And (to borrow a phrase from the nursery) muched it;
She has such a musical taste, she will go
Any distance to hear one who draws a long bow;