POETRY.
MY MASTERPIECE.
WHILE other authors to a man, Work hurriedly and never cease, I sit apart and inly plan
My masterpiece.
I've nothing written of it yet, No, not so much as one short line, Although I've brooded over it Eight years or nine.
I shall not write as in this age
Most do, currents culamo, P11 be content to fill a page
A day, or so.
'Tis not a thing to lightly take In hand, and deal with now and then— The work destined (I think) to shake The souls of men.
They call me lazy: I am not, I meditate from morn till eve, How deep I am sometimes in thought You'd scarce believe.
I may seem indolent perhaps, So did James Watt : I'm raking in Materials : when two years elapse I shall begin.
Yet my ideal is so rare, 'Twonld be a shame, sometimes I think, To rear one, maybe not so fair, With pen and ink.
But if I do, what high renown, What glory never to decrease, What universal praise shall crown
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