X.

'Or,' cried he, a grave look collecting, 'Is it my genius, like the moon, Sets those who stand her face inspecting, That face within their brain reflecting, Like a crazed bell-chime, out of tune?'

For Peter did not know the town, But thought, as country readers do, For half a guinea or a crown, He bought oblivion or renown From God's own voice[85] in a review.

All Peter did on this occasion Was writing some sad stuff in prose. It is a dangerous invasion When poets criticize; their station Is to delight, not pose.