To Thackeray
O Gentler Censor of our age!
Prime master of our ampler tongue!
Whose word of wit and generous page
Were never wroth except with Wrong.
Fielding—without the manner’s dross,
Scott—with a spirit’s larger room,
What Prelate deems thy grave his loss?
What Halifax erects thy tomb?
But, may be, He—who could so draw
The hidden Great, the humble Wise—
Yielding with them to God’s good law,
Makes the Pantheon where he lies.