To the Critic

Of all my verses, say that one is good, So shalt thou give more praise than Hope might claim; And from my poet-grave, to vex thy soul, No ghost shall rise, whose deeds demand a name. A thousand loves, and only one shall stand To show us what its counterfeits should be; The blossoms of a spring-tide, and but one Bears the world’s fruit,—the seed of History. A thousand rhymes shall pass, and only one Show, crystal-shod, the Muse’s twinkling feet; A thousand pearls the haughty Ethiop spurned Ere one could make her luxury complete. In goodliest places, some meanest room The owner’s smallness shields contentedly. Nay, further: of the manifold we are, But one pin’s point shall pass eternity. Exalt, then, to the greatness of the throne One only of these beggarlings of mine; I with the rest will dwell in modest bounds: The chosen one shall glorify the line.