Read it through once

“Ah dismal soul’d! The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll’d It’s gathering waves--ye felt it not. The blue Bar’d its eternal bosom, and the dew Of summer nights collected still to make The morning precious: beauty was awake! Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead To things ye knew not of,--were closely wed To musty laws lined out with wretched rule And compass vile: so that ye taught a school Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, Till, like the certain wands of Jacob’s wit, Their verses tallied. Easy was the task: A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race! That blasphem’d the bright Lyrist to his face, And did not know it,--no, they went about, Holding a poor, decrepid standard out Mark’d with most flimsy mottoes, and in large The name of one Boileau!”