(TO J. L. W.) 'MORE Poets yet!' -- I hear him say, Arming his heavy hand to slay; -- 'Despite my skill and "swashing blow," They seem to sprout where'er I go; -- I killed a host but yesterday!' Slash on, O Hercules! You may. Your task's, at best, a Hydra-fray; And though you cut, not less will grow More Poets yet! Too arrogant! For who shall stay The first blind motions of the May? Who shall out-blot the morning glow? -- Or stem the full heart's overflow? Who? There will rise, till Time decay, More Poets yet! |