The Funeral, XVII

The Warden stood in fierce array, Like savage of St Julian’s bay, By nature form’d for martial fray, In stature towering high; As trunk of oak his massy limb, Though muscular, yet moulded trim;— His visage pointed, long, and grim, Lank cheeks and hollow eye. Unlike the carpet-race we boast The soldier’s jest, though fashion’s toast, Who leave Castalian springs for wine,— Whose greatest glory is—to dine!