XV.

A printer's boy, folding those pages, Fell slumbrously upon one side; Like those famed Seven who slept three ages, To wakeful frenzy's vigil-rages, As opiates, were the same applied.

Even the Reviewers who were hired To do the work of his reviewing, With adamantine nerves, grew tired;-- Gaping and torpid they retired, To dream of what they should be doing.