In wrath redundant Swinburne turns and rends

The "good grey" bard. Alack for Swinburne's "friends"!

He worshipped once at thy red shine, Revolt,

Now thou'rt a mark for his Olympian bolt;

But when he rounds on poor barbaric Walt,

One can but gasp, and wonder where he'll halt.

Coupled with Byron in one furious "slate"?

O poor Manhattan mouther, what a fate!

Algernon's blunderbuss is double-barrelled;

Down at one shot go "Drum Taps" and "Childe Harold."

Just fancy being levelled down to—Byron!

Alas! what woes the poet's path environ.

What next, and next? Byron called Southey "gander."

But then the lordly rhymester railed at Landor,

One of the Swinburne fetishes, enough

To prove that all he wrote was soulless stuff—

But stop! Who knows that Swinburne, on the ravage,

May not, next time, pitch into Walter Savage?

The idols he once worshipped now he'd burn,

So e'en Mazzini yet may have his turn—

Nay, since the hour for palinodes has struck,

At Hugomania he may run amuck;

And, Victor being laid upon the shelf,

There'll be but one to round upon—himself.