Classic Poem

Oft have I looked on France with envy vain,
Not of her vines, nor of her sunny land,
Nor of her glory; but of that bright band,
The Wits by whom huge Dulness has been slain;
Who seem'd another Saturn in his reign,
And with his Titans dared a moral hand
To find his headpiece vulnerably plann'd:—
Transfix'd is he by arrows of the brain!

Of these keen archers, Molière and Montaigne
To me are dearest: for these two combine
Wisdom and laughter: these I am full fain
To call most precious countrymen of mine:
They bridge the Channel waters once again,
And add a proof that Genius is divine.