32 But hush! A strident critic rises And bids us cast away the crown Of elegy in all its guises And to our rhyming guild calls down: ’Have done with all your lamentations, Your endless croakings and gyrations On “former days” and “times of yore”; Enough now! Sing of something more!’ You’re right. And will you point with praises To trumpet, mask, and dagger* too, And bid us thuswise to renew Our stock of dead ideas and phrases? Is that it, friend?—’Far from it. Nay! Write odes,* good sirs, write odes, I say …
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