Charade

[By Quaip]
Four syllables compose my name
Which has often cracked the trump of Fame;
Follow their sound, not their form, or sense,
(A style I have) and you’ll guess me thence.
     My first you tread down at your very door,
A De’il nailed Sisera-like, to the floor,
     My next by its sound sense, is made a thing
Foolish amd “flash,” that a spell can bring
Foremost in fight, a wheeled wain,
Look sharp as you will in’t, you still look in vain.
My third., why that is just you and me,
And the rest of our clique, all of us perdie.
     My fourth, fills your ears without a sound,
Holds Colonels in ranks, like privates, bound,
When blades and spears, and plumes upraised,
O’er the wide field wave, and the land is amazed.
     My whole you may fancy has fine long ears
As my last; ‘tis a symbol; in fact it appears
All tail, like a comet or chimpanzee,
Find the dreadest tale-bearer and you’ve found me.

Answer to Charade, by Quaip
The dread tale bearers who still raises hob 
With our poor wits is one SYLVANUS COBB.
The sill, by sound, not form, we trample o'er 
Composed of deal and nailed down to the floor.
Va(i)n is the next by sense of sound — "sound sense," 
But which, as spell'd, is "van" and "foremost," hence,
The third is "us," precisely, and the "Cob".
Fills ears (of corn) where kernels bob-a-nob
On ranks, when all the maize field is amaized, 
And its green spears, and blades, and plumes are raized.