“Touch him ne’er so lightly, into song he broke: Soil so quick-receptive,—not one feather-seed, Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awoke Vitalizing Virtue: song would song succeed Sudden as spontaneous—prove a poet-soul!” Indeed? Rock’s the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare: Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rage Vainly both expend,—few flowers awaken there: Quiet in its cleft broods—what the after age Knows and names a pine, a nation’s heritage. These lines appeared first as the Epilogue to the second series of Dramatic Idyls, published in 1880. In October of the same year, the poet wrote, in the Album of a young American lady, a sequel to them, which appeared (in fac-simile) in the _Century Magazine_ of November, 1882. They are given here, with the kind consent of the publishers of that magazine:— Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters, Poets dead and gone: and lo, the critics cried “Out on such a boast!”—as if I dreamed that fetters Binding Dante, bind up—me! as if true pride Were not also humble! So I smiled and sighed As I ope’d your book in Venice this bright morning, Sweet new friend of mine! and felt tho’ clay or sand— Whatsoe’er my soil be,—break—for praise or scorning— Out in grateful fancies—weeds, but weeds expand Almost into flowers, held by such a kindly hand! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ POPULARITY. I. Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you’ll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star! II. My star, God’s glow-worm! Why extend That loving hand of His which leads you, Yet locks you safe from end to end Of this dark world, unless He needs you, Just saves your light to spend? III. His clenched hand shall unclose at last, I know, and let out all the beauty: My poet holds the future fast, Accepts the coming ages’ duty, Their present for this past. IV. That day, the earth’s feast-master’s brow Shall clear, to God the chalice raising; “Others give best at first, but Thou “Forever set’st our table praising, “Keep’st the good wine till now!” V. Meantime, I’ll draw you as you stand, With few or none to watch and wonder: I’ll say—a fisher, on the sand By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder, A netful, brought to land. VI. Who has not heard how Tyrian shells Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes Whereof one drop worked miracles, And coloured like Astarte’s eyes Raw silk the merchant sells? VII.