To a Strenuous Critic

You scorn as idle—you who praise
Each posturing hero of the herd—
The lofty bearing of a phrase,
The noble countenance of a word.

“This has no import for the age!”
And so your votive wreaths you heap
On him who brought unto our Stage
A mightier dulness o'er the deep.

Great Heaven! When these with clamour shrill
Drift out to Lethe's harbour bar,
A verse of Lovelace shall be still
As vivid as a pulsing star.
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