From “a Fable for Critics”
THERE is Lowell, who ’s striving Parnassus to climb
With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme.
He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders,
But he can’t with that bundle he has on his shoulders.
The top of the hill he will ne’er come nigh reaching
Till he learns the distinction ’twixt singing and...
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He parts Himself — like Leaves —
And then — He closes up —
Then stands upon the Bonnet
Of Any Buttercup —
And then He runs against
And oversets a Rose —
And then does Nothing —
Then away upon a Jib — He goes —
And dangles like a Mote
Suspended in the Noon...He who in Himself believes —
Fraud cannot presume —
Faith is Constancy's Result —
And assumes — from Home —
Cannot perish, though it fail
Every second time —
But defaced Vicariously —
For Some Other Shame —William was once a bashful youth,
His modesty was such,
That one might say (to say the truth)
He rather had too much.
Some said that it was want of sense,
And others, want of spirit,
(So blest a thing is impudence,)
While others could not bear it.
...Who Court obtain within Himself
Sees every Man a King —
And Poverty of Monarchy
Is an interior thing —
No Man depose
Whom Fate Ordain —
And Who can add a Crown
To Him who doth continual
Conspire against His Own