To answer first what first it says. Why will you speak of partial praise? I spoke with honesty and truth, And now you seem to doubt them both. The lynx’s eye may seem to him, Who always has enjoy’d it, dim: And brilliant thoughts to you may be What common-place ones are to me. You note them not--but cast them by, As light is lavish’d by the sky; Or streams from Indian mountains roll’d Fling to the ocean grains of gold. But still we know the gold is fine-- But still we know the light’s divine. As to the Century and Pope, The thought’s not so absurd, I hope. I don’t despair to see a throne Rear’d above his--and p’rhaps your own. The course is clear, the goal’s in view, ’Tis free to all, why not to you? But, ere you start, you should survey The towering falcon strike her prey: In gradual sweeps the sky she scales, Nor all at once the bird assails, But hems him in--cuts round the skies, And gains upon him as he flies. Wearied and faint he beats the air in vain, Then shuts his flaggy wings, and pitches to the plain. Now, falcon! now! One stoop--but one, The quarry’s struck--the prize is won! So he who hopes the palm to gain, So often sought--and sought in vain, Must year by year, as round by round, In easy circles leave the ground: ’Tis time has taught him how to rise, And naturalized him to the skies. Full many a day Pope trod the vales, Mid “silver streams and murmuring gales.” Long fear’d the rising hills to tread, Nor ever dared the mountain-head. It needs not Milton to display,-- Who let a life-time slide away, Before he swept the sounding string, And soar’d on Pegasean wing,-- Nor Homer’s ancient form--to show The Laurel takes an age to grow; And he who gives his name to fate, Must plant it early, reap it late; Nor pluck the blossoms as they spring, So beautiful, yet perishing. * * * * * More I would say--but, see, the paper Is nearly out--and so’s my taper. So while I’ve space, and while I’ve light, I’ll shake your hand, and bid good-night. F. P. H. _Croydon, Dec. 17, 1826._ [65] To shield this line from criticism--’Tis Parody--not Plagiarism. * * * * * ~Anecdotes.~ GENERAL WOLFE. It is related of this distinguished officer, that his death-wound was not received by the common chance of war.