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135
A YOUTHFUL POET TO HIS CRITICS
Methinks I hear those dull men murmuring on:“Not half bad,—really, rather melodious,—
But then he sighs too much, is ominous,
All minor-keyed, the pathos overdrawn.
There's woe enough i' the world”—this with a yawn—
“Why must our songs be likewise dolorous?
No nightingales! The lark 's the bird for us!”
Ah, my poor fellows, it is night. When dawn
Clarions in the east and waits an answering word,
Then shall you hear the loud-resounding lark,—
Yea, Israfel, passioning like the Arabian bird
Whose heart of flame bore fruit of ancient tales,
Shall thrill the very seraphim to hark.
But now—content you with the nightingales.
May, 1888.
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