I despise thee not; - thy labors,
If they make us better neighbors,
Are not valueless to men.

Highly all the world esteems thee,
And a poet may declare,

That the wise should place reliance
On the efforts of thy science
To diminish human care.

Bring thy hidden truth to daylight,

And I'll ne'er complain of thee; Dull thou'rt call'd—and dullness cumbers, Yet there's wisdom in thy numbers; Leave my numbers unto me.

Each of us fulfills a duty,

And, though scorn'd, I'll cling to mine,

With a passion ever growing,

In my heart to overflowing;

Cling thou with as much to thine.

Thou 'rt a preacher; I'm a prophet;
Thou discoursest to thy time;

I discourse to generations;

And the thoughts of unborn nations
Shall be fashion'd by my rhyme.

Thou, to dubious politicians,

Staid, and passionless, and slow, Givest pros and cons with candor, Bland and patient, ever blander .

As thy trim deductions flow.

THE POET AND THE POLITICAL ECONOMIST.

I send forth electric flashes

To the bosom of the crowd;
Rule its pulses, cheer its sadness,
Make it throb and pant with gladness,

Till it answers me aloud.

Not for me to linger idly,

Gathering garlands by the way;
Singing but of flowers and sunsets,
Lovers' vows, or nightly onsets,
Or of ladies fair as May.

No, the poet loves his calling,
Nature's lyre is all his own;
He can sweep its strings prophetic,
Till the nations, sympathetic,
Gather breathless to its tone.

For he knows the PEOPLE listen
When a mighty spirit speaks,
And that none can stir them duly
But the man that loves them truly,

And from them his impulse sceks.

What they feel, but cannot utter ;

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What they hope for day and night;
These the words by which he fires them,
Prompts them, leads them, and inspires them
To do battle for the right.

These the words by which the many

Cope for justice with the few; —

These their watchwords, when oppression Would resist the small concession

But a fraction of their due.

These the poet, music-hearted,
Blazons to the listening land;
And for these all lands shall prize him,
Though the foolish may despise him,
Or the wise misunderstand.

Go thy way, then, man of logic,

In thy fashion, speak thy truth; Thou hast fix'd, and I have chosen; Thou shalt speak to blood that's frozen, I to vigor and to youth.

Haply we shall both be useful,

And, perchance, more useful thou,

If their full degree of merit
Unto other moods of spirit

Thou wilt cherfully allow.

As for me, I fear no scorning,
And shall speak with earnest mind
What is in me; self-rewarded
If I aid, though unregarded,

The advancement of my

kind.

TO A FRIEND AFRAID OF CRITICS.

AFRAID of critics! an unworthy fear:

Great minds must learn their greatness and be bold.
Walk on thy way; bring forth thine own true thought;
Love thy high calling only for itself,

And find in working recompense for work,
And Envy's shaft shall whiz at thee in vain.
Despise not censure; weigh if it be just,

And if it be amend, whate'er the thought

Of him who cast it. Take the wise man's praise,
And love thyself the more that thou couldst earn
Meed so exalted; but the blame of fools

Let it blow over like an idle whiff

Of poisonous tobacco in the streets,
Invasive of thy unoffending nose.

Their praise no better, only more perfumed.

The Critics

let me paint them as they are. Some few I know, and love them from my soul; Polish'd, acute, deep read; of inborn taste

Cultured into a virtue; full of pith

And kindly vigor; having won their spurs

In the great rivalry of friendly mind,

And generous to others, though unknown;
Who would, having a thought, let all men know
The new discovery. But these are rare;
And if thou find one, take him to thy heart,
And think his unbought praise both palm and crown,
A thing worth living for, were nought beside.
Fear thou no critic, if thou'rt true thyself;
And look for fame, now, if the wise approve,
Or, from a wiser jury yet unborn.
The Poetaster may be harm'd enough,
But Criticasters cannot crush a Bard.

If to be famous be thy sole intent,

And greatness be a mark beyond thy reach,
Manage the critics, and thou 'lt win the game;
Invite them to thy board, and give them feasts,
And foster them with unrelaxing care;
And they will praise thee in their partial sheets,
And quite ignore the work of better men.
But if thou wilt not court them let them go,
And scorn the praise that sells itself for wine,
Or tacks itself upon success alone,

Hanging like spittle on a rich man's beard.

One, if thou 'rt great, will cite from thy new book The tamest passage, something that thy soul Revolts at, now the inspiration's o'er,

And would give all thou hast to blot from print
And sink into oblivion, — and will vaunt

The thing as beautiful, transcendent, rare — The best thing thou hast done. Another friend,

With finer sense, will praise thy greatest thought,