To the end of the trail / Richard Hovey [electronic text]

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.