No jingler of rhymes, and no mingler of phrases,
No tuner of times, and no pruner of daisies,
No lullaby lyrist, with nothing to say,
No small sentimentalist, fainting away,
No Ardert of albums, no trifling Tyrtaeus,
No bilious misanthrope loathing to see us,
No gradus-and-prosody maker of verses,
No Hector of tragedy vapouring curses,-
In a word - though a long one - no mere
poetaster,

The monkey that follows some troubadour master,
And, filching from Byron, or Shelley, or Keats,
With cunning mosaic his coterie cheats
Into voting the poor petty-larceny fool
A charming disciple of Wordsworth's own school!

Not a bit of it! - Pilferers, duncy and dreary,-
Human society's utterly weary
Of gilt insincerities, hopping in verse,
And stately hexameters plumed like a hearse,
And seond-hand sentiment, sugar'd with ice,
And a third course of passion, warm'd up very nice,
And peaches of wax, and your sham wooden pine,
The fitting dessert of a feast so divine!
With musical lies and mechanical stuff
The verse-ridden world has been pester'd enough:
But yet in its heart, if unsmother'd by words,
It thrills and it throbs from its innermost chords
To generous, truthful, melodious Sense,
To beautiful language and feelings intense,
To human affection sincerely pour'd out,
To eloquence,- tagg'd with a rhyme, or without;
To anything tasteful, and hearty, and true,
Delicate, graceful, and noble, and new!

Ay; find me the man - or the woman - or child,
Though modest, yet bold; and though spirited, mild;
With a mind that can think, and a heart that can feel,
And the tongue and the pen that are skill'd to reveal,
And the eye that hath wept, and the hand that will aid
And the brow that in peril was never afraid;
With courage to dare, and with keenness to plan,
And tact to declare what is pleasant to man
While guiding and teaching and training his mind,
While spurring the lazy, and leading the blind;
With pureness in youth, and religion in age,
And cordial affection at every stage,-
The harp of this woman, this man, or this youth,
By genius well strung, and made tuneful by truth,
Shall charm and shall ravish the world at its will,
And make its old heart yet tremble and thrill,
While all men shall own it and feel it and know it
Gladly and gratefully,- Here is the Poet!