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.