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TO AUGUSTUS M. SWIFT: NEW YORK.
Nay,—ask not one whose life hath left behindOur mortal age of threescore years and ten,
To grasp with tremulous clutch the poet's pen,
Taxing his brain reluctant rhyme to find;
Better a barrel-organ's mournful grind,
Discordant, dismal to the ears of men,
Than croak false notes immured in darksome den
Of Eld,—to music deaf, to beauty blind.
Seek rather in thy fair and fervent West,
Where mind and minstrel-art are fresh and young,
Such thought as bubbles up through brain and breast,
In verse attuned aright to pen and tongue;
Leave here the worn-out rhymer to his rest,
His hurdy-gurdy cracked, his dirge unsung.
July 10th, 1870.
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