TO HIMSELF.
FF! off! thou art an ass, thou art
an ass,
"Thou man of endless words and
little sense,
"Of pigmy powers and conceit im—
mense—
"Thou art a Donkey!
Take a bit of grass?"
Oh, Martin! Oh, my Tupper! thus exclaims
A groveling Age, grown envious of thy fames,—
Thy boundless sonnets, and Proverbial bays:
Blest Silence! lovéd Silence! thou art Heavn!—
(See my remarks in "Sonnet 47")—
Yet will I breathe my pleasant Poems forth
Innumerable. Hundreds more—ay tens
Of thousands! Sweet etherial rhymes,
I hold ye here! and hug ye—all the lot;—
A monstrous pile of quintessential rot!!
