II.

There is no lack of poets to rehearse

The wrongs we suffer, nor to urge our claim

To equal rights-to bandy Freedom's name, Nor show how withering is Slavery's curse: Yet needs a Milton for the universe

To bring its tyrants of the mind to shame;
Or caustic Byron, with a pen of flame,
To fuse the fetters of its brutal force.

Land of these mighty spirits! is thy womb

Still pregnant with a mightier, who shall write The epitaph upon Oppression's tomb,

And pierce the depths of ignorance with light? Oh! that the glorious advent might but come

Before I slumber in eternal night!

III.

O! how my poet's spirit doth it vex,

That I must still be told, by cautious men, "Beware the Muse! A "wisp" above a fen, That will your step mislead-your mind perplex.” Why, worldlings! I'm as proud to wield the axe, As I am happy I can guide the pen

To frame a sonnet-and return again

To a day's toil, that would disjoint the necks
Of half your dandy poets. Out! away!
Throw not your scandal on the holy Muse-
Hers is a sacred mission, to infuse

The thoughts that elevate; and this my lay,
Conjoined with daily toil, may disabuse

The world's false notion, that she leads astray.

IV.

Except some trifling love song, or at most
A lay to beauteous flower or tuneful bird,

Is all the voice as yet the world hath heard
From my glib muse, that should have nobler boast;
For I've beheld oppression's banded host

Trample humanity-hard toil's reward

The veriest pittance-cant to truth preferred,

And swaggering vice usurping virtue's post,

But yet have not denounced them, though I feel,

As well as see, the unmitigated wrong

That power and selfishness with iron heel,

Daily inflict upon the toiling throng

And blush to think I've uttered no appeal

Against these evils in indignant song.

V.

ILLUSTRATING THE DEVELOPMENT OF POETICAL TALENT.

1.

Of poetry, our simple ballad lore

Long formed my only library, till the page
Of unsurpassed Shakspere did engage
Mine eye, its depths of treasure to explore:
My favourites were the much-beguiléd Moor,
And the fair victim of his jealous rage;
Romeo and Juliet; and, upon the stage
Of martial heroes, him of Agincour;

But much of what was nature seemed uncouth,
Far as my folded faculties could see,
And failed to strike my inexperienced youth
Either with sweetness or sublimity;

Till, by degrees, its beauty and its truth.

Won, and still wins, my deep idolatry.