Cunning man! He knew the tricks of trade, and was adroit. My poem was "a revelation." I had "burst Like thunder from a calm and cloudless sky." Well, not to quote his language, this the drift: A man of fortune, living at his ease, But fond of manly effort, had sat down, And turned his culture to supreme account; And he--the editor--took on himself To thank him on the world's behalf. Withal, The poet had betrayed the continence Of genius. He had held, undoubtedly, The consciousness of power from early youth; But, yielding never to the itch for print, Had nursed and chastened and developed it, Until his hand was strong, and swept his lyre With magic of a master. Followed here Sage comments on the rathe and puny brood Of poet-sucklings, who had rushed to type Before their time--pale stems that spun their flowers In the first sunshine, but, when Autumn came, Were fruitless. It was pleasant, too, to see, In such an age of sentimental cant, One man who dared to hold up to the world A creature of his brain, and say: "Look you! This is my thought; and it shall stand alone. It has no moral, bears no ministry Of pious teaching, and makes no appeal To sufferance or suffrage of the muffs Who, in the pulpit or the press, prepare The nation's pap. The fiery-footed barb That pounds the pampas, and the lily-bells That hang above the brooks, present the world With no apology for being there, And no attempt to justify themselves In uselessness. It is enough for God That they are beautiful, and hold his thought In fine embodiment; and it shall be Enough for me that, in this book of mine, I have created somewhat that is strong And beautiful, which, if it profit,--well: If not, 'tis no less strong and beautiful, And holds its being by no feebler right." Ay, it was glorious to find one man Who piled no packs upon his Pegasus, Nor chained him to a rag-cart, loaded down With moral frippery, and strings of bells To call the people to their windows. Then There followed extracts, with a change of type To mark the places where the editor Had caught a fancy hiding, which he feared Might slip detection under slower eyes Than those he carried; or to emphasize Felicities of diction that were stiff In Roman verticals, but grew divine At the Italic angle; then apology, Profoundly humble, to his patrons all For quoting at such length, and one to me For quoting anything, and deep regrets, In quite a general way, that lack of space Forbade a reproduction of the book From title-page to tail-piece, winding up With counsel to all lovers of pure art, Patrons of genius, all Americans, All friends of cis-Atlantic literature, To buy the book, and read it for themselves.