The man of letters was attired in a neat but poor suit of clothes, and his surroundings were humble and even sordid; but his face was neither peevish nor careworn, but wore an expression of dignified contentment and scholarly repose.  The walls of his lodging were lined with bookcases, upon which many a volume was stacked.  Poor he had been for long, but he had not been in the straits that many men of letters were reduced to in those days.  On his desk were strewn pages of manuscript verse which caught the eyes of the visitors at once.

“By my halidome! if that be not the poem itself!”

“The rough copy alone, the rough copy,” said Addison, who was walking up and down the narrow room, his eyes aglow, his face a little flushed.  “The fair one is in the hands of the printers.  My Lord Godolphin came himself to hear it read but a few short days ago, and took it off with him then and there.”

“Delighted with it, and vowing that you should be the first poet of the times, if report be true!” cried Lord Claud.

“He did express his satisfaction,” answered the poet quietly.  “And I doubt not I shall receive some mark of favour at no distant date.  But not all the favour of Queen or courtier can give me the title to poet.  That lies in a sphere which not the most powerful potentate can aspire to touch.  The voice of posterity alone can make or mar that title!”

“But let us hear something of this great poem,” cried Lord Claud.  “As I say, it must be burning upon your tongue.  Prithee do us the grace to recite us portions of it.”

It was a request palatable to the eager soul of the poet, all on fire with the work which had occupied his thoughts and pen for so many long weeks.  He still kept up his pacing to and fro; but as he walked he gave utterance to the well-conned passages of his work, throwing into the words a fire and a spirit which kindled the spark in Lord Claud’s eyes, and even made young Tom’s heart glow with admiration and wonder, albeit he had never been the votary of letters.

If high-flown, the language of the day kept it in countenance.  Nothing simple would have found favour at that date.  And no one called the sentiments forced, even though there seemed to be slight confusion sometimes between Marlborough and the Deity.  The well-known lines upon the battle of Blenheim itself were given with a wonderful fire and force: 

“’Twas then great Marlbro’s mighty soul was proved,
That in the shock of charging hosts, unmoved
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war,
In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. 
So, when an angel by divine command
With rising tempest shakes a guilty land—­
Such as of late o’er pale Britannia passed—­
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast,
And, pleased the Almighty’s orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.”