The Dreamy Rhymer'S Measur'D Snore Falls Heavy On Our Ears No More; And By Long Strides Are Left Behind The Dear Delights Of Woman-Kind, Who Win Their Battles Like Their Loves, In Satin Waistcoats And Kid Gloves, And Have Achiev'D The Crowning Work When They Have Truss'D And Skewer'D A Turk. Another Comes With Stouter Tread, And Stalks Among The Statelier Dead. He Rushes On, And Hails By Turns High-Crested Scott, Broad-Breasted Burns, And Shows The British Youth, Who Ne'er Will Lag Behind, What Romans Were, When All The Tuscans And Their Lars Shouted, And Shook The Towers Of Mars.