And like a starving crowd around a baker’s door,

For tickets as for bread they roar.

So wonder-working is the poet’s sway

O’er every heart—so may it work to-day!

Poet.

Poet.

O mention not that motley throng to me,

Which only seen makes frighted genius pause;

Hide from my view that wild and whirling sea

That sucks me in, and deep and downward draws.

No! let some noiseless nook of refuge be

My heaven, remote from boisterous rude applause,

Where Love and Friendship, as a God inspires,

Create and fan the pure heart’s chastened fires.

Alas! what there the shaping thought did rear,

And scarce the trembling lip might lisping say,

To Nature’s rounded type not always near,

The greedy moment rudely sweeps away.

Oft-times a work, through many a patient year

Must toil to reach its finished fair display;

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