TO ----

(WITH A VOLUME OF EPIGRAMS)

Unto the Lady of The Nook
Fly, tiny book.
There thou hast lovers--even thou!
Fly thither now.

Seven years hast thou for honour yearned,
And scant praise earned;
But ah! to win, at last, _such_ friends,
Is full amends.



ON EXAGGERATED DEFERENCE TO
FOREIGN LITERARY OPINION

What! and shall _we_, with such submissive airs
As age demands in reverence from the young,
Await these crumbs of praise from Europe flung,
And doubt of our own greatness till it bears
The signet of your Goethes or Voltaires?
We who alone in latter times have sung
With scarce less power than Arno's exiled tongue--
We who are Milton's kindred, Shakespeare's heirs.