He knew the occult presences that move
Behind the waking pageant of men's days;
His feet had trod Caerleon's Roman ways
And trespassed in the Nymphs' and Fauns' grove;
The Cambrian hills imaginary trove
Was his to tell in Apuleian phrase;
And, as de Quincey, he had power to praise
The mean demoded purlieu singers love.
He could create a legend in a war,
Bring back the bowmen that gave England France
As simply as report a sordid crime;
Still in the puddle he described the star
And in the broken railing the knight's lance:
Too few like him at this mechanic time!