TO
DOUGLAS JERROLD.
My friend, heart-homage, in this simple strain,
I yield thee for thy toil to aid the Right!
Too long hath genius, with a guilty slight,
Passed by the thousands who life's load sustain
Of scorn and indigence,—to court the vain
And foppish crowd,—or laud, in phrases dight
With fulsome flattery, some pampered wight
Who counts himself for polished porcelain,—
The poor for vulgar clay! A nobler path,—