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I heard The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Now harping on the church-commissioners, Now hawking at geology and schism[.]
“Why take the style of those heroic times? For nature brings not back the mastodon, Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models? these twelve books of mine Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth. Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt.”
[W]e Sat rapt: it was the tone with which he read— Perhaps some modern touches here and there Redeem’d it from the charge of nothingness— Or else we loved the man, and prized his work; I know not[.]
To me, methought, who waited with the crowd, There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore King Arthur, like a modern gentleman Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, “Arthur is come again; he cannot die.”
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