Caesura

In lengthening slumberous reposes lies Dickens' sterling pen under bluish skies; And through them gloats deathless sun, Taunting all that under his embers burn. No more savoring of Oliver’s twisty trials In doleful dints and extra-nuanced miles; Nor shall of tested Nell all posterity hear, Cooed in sweetly plaintive rhythms dear. Nicholas Nickleby's adventures now Must halt and take a somnolent bow, And leave us at Muse’s orphan gate, Slow to hug our stark bereaving fate. Whence comes a defter pen to tell Copperfield's youth and pupil spell, By stingy virtue ridden through cry And toil with dismal affection nigh? Stung reader must content themselves With ancient writs mute on dull shelves, And with relish cherish and revive tales Mid-voyage drowned by muffling gales.