The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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AGAINST PRIDE OF INTELLECT. |
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 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
AGAINST PRIDE OF INTELLECT.
Proud Poet, think'st thou that the mass of men,
Low as they seem beneath thy fancied height,
Have yet no other sources of delight,
No poesy, save that of thy poor pen!
Little as distance makes them to thy ken,
Haply that self same distance, to their sight,
Makes thee as little seem, and with more right,
Who deem'st thyself not of them, and art then,
And just for this, beneath them! is yon' sun,
Rising in glory, not far better, pray,
Than thy description of it? the lark's lay
Itself than all thy verses on it? one
Sweet flow'r more than all that thou canst say,
And far beyond thy best comparison?
Low as they seem beneath thy fancied height,
Have yet no other sources of delight,
No poesy, save that of thy poor pen!
Little as distance makes them to thy ken,
Haply that self same distance, to their sight,
Makes thee as little seem, and with more right,
Who deem'st thyself not of them, and art then,
And just for this, beneath them! is yon' sun,
Rising in glory, not far better, pray,
Than thy description of it? the lark's lay
Itself than all thy verses on it? one
Sweet flow'r more than all that thou canst say,
And far beyond thy best comparison?
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Oh Nature hath not left her children all
So unprovided for—she hath not made
One heart for which some music hath not played,
Which thou hast never heard! for things, which small
To thee appear, may be poetical
And grand to others, who, not for parade,
But for their daily lives, with little aid
Of rhyme, a poesy more literal,
Yet grander far, create! nor yet on thee
Has she heaped all her gifts, and left the rest
To wonder at her partiality—
Thou from thy fellow-men deriv'st the best
And most of what thou hast, although it be,
As 'twere, a sum put out at interest!
So unprovided for—she hath not made
One heart for which some music hath not played,
Which thou hast never heard! for things, which small
To thee appear, may be poetical
And grand to others, who, not for parade,
But for their daily lives, with little aid
Of rhyme, a poesy more literal,
Yet grander far, create! nor yet on thee
Has she heaped all her gifts, and left the rest
To wonder at her partiality—
Thou from thy fellow-men deriv'st the best
And most of what thou hast, although it be,
As 'twere, a sum put out at interest!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |