To Leigh Hunt, on an Omission in his Feast of the Poets

L EIGH Hunt ! thou stingy man, Leigh Hunt!
May Charon swamp thee in his punt,
For having, in thy list, forgotten
So many poets scarce half rotten,
Who did expect of thee at least
A few cheese-parings from thy Feast .
Hast thou no pity on the men
Who suck (as babes their tongues) the pen,
Until it leaves no traces where
It lighted, and seems dipt in air.
At last be generous, Hunt! and prythee
Refresh (and gratis too) in Lethe
Yonder sick Muse, surcharged with poppies
And heavier presentation-copies.
She must grow livelier, and the river
More potent in effect than ever.
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