' What art thou, Presumptuous, who profanest
  The wreath to mighty poets only due,
Even whilst like a forgotten moon thou wanest ?
  Touch not those leaves which for the eternal few
Who wander o'er the Paradise of fame,
  In sacred dedication ever grew :
One of the crowd thou art without a name.'
  'Ah, friend, 'tis the false laurel that I wear ;
Bright though it seem, it is not the same
  As that which bound Milton's immortal hair ;
Its dew is poison ; and the hopes that quicken
  Under its chilling shade, though seeming fair,
Are flowers which die almost before they sicken.'

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