 | Ballads for the Times
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To my Book, “Prouerbial Philosophy,”
Before Publication; 1837.
My soul's own son, dear image of my mind,
I would not without blessing send thee forth
Into the bleak wide world, whose voice unkind
Perchance will mock at thee as nothing worth;
For the cold critic's jealous eye may find
In all thy purposed good little but ill,
May taunt thy simple garb as quaintly wrought,
And praise thee for no more than the small skill
Of masking as thine own another's thought:
What then?—count envious sneers as less than nought:
Fair is thine aim, and, having done thy best,
Lo, thus I bless thee; yea, thou shalt be blest!
| Ballads for the Times
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