Crispin's sons Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns, Cherish'd the gift of _Song_, which sorrow quells; And, working single in their low-rooft cells, Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight .-- Who now hath caught the alarm?
the Servant Maid, Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid To miss a note, with elbows red comes out.
Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout Thrusts in his unwash'd visage.

_He_ stands by, Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply With stooping shoulders.

What cares he?
he sees The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees, But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song.
So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings, The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings, And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load.
Hither and thither from the sevenfold road Some cart or wagon crosses, which divides The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past, They reunite, so these unite as fast.
The older Songstress hitherto hath spent Her elocution in the argument Of their great Song in _prose_; to wit, the woes Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes-- Ah! "_Wandering He!_"-- which now in loftier _verse_ Pathetic they alternately rehearse.
All gaping wait the event.

This Critic opes His right ear to the strain.

The other hopes To catch it better with his left.