Author Of The Poetical Portraiture Of The Church. Sweet Singer Of Romaldkirk, Thou Who Art Reckoned, By Critics Episcopal, David The Second,[1] If Thus, As A Curate, So Lofty Your Flight, Only Think, In A Rectory, How You Would Write! Once Fairly Inspired By The "Tithe-Crowned Apollo," (Who Beats, I Confess It, Our Lay Phoebus Hollow, Having Gotten, Besides The Old Nine'S Inspiration, The Tenth Of All Eatable Things In Creation.) There'S Nothing In Fact That A Poet Like You, So Be-Nined And Be-Tenthed, Couldn't Easily Do. Round The Lips Of The Sweet-Tongued Athenian[2] They Say, While Yet But A Babe In His Cradle He Lay, Wild Honey-Bees Swarmed As Presage To Tell Of The Sweet-Flowing Words That Thence Afterwards Fell. Just So Round Our Overton'S Cradle, No Doubt, Tenth Ducklings And Chicks Were Seen Flitting About; Goose Embryos, Waiting Their Doomed Decimation, Came, Shadowing Forth His Adult Destination, And Small, Sucking Tithe-Pigs, In Musical Droves, Announced The Church Poet Whom Chester Approves. O Horace! When Thou, In Thy Vision Of Yore, Didst Dream That A Snowy-White Plumage Came O'Er Thy Etherealized Limbs, Stealing Downily On, Till, By Fancy'S Strong Spell, Thou Wert Turned To A Swan, Little Thought'St Thou Such Fate Could A Poet Befall, Without Any Effort Of Fancy, At All; Little Thought'St Thou The World Would In Overton Find A Bird, Ready-Made, Somewhat Different In Kind, But As Perfect As Michaelmas' Self Could Produce, By Gods Yclept Anser, By Mortals A Goose.