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To A New England Poet

by
 Though skilled in Latin and in Greek,
And earning fifty cents a week,
Such knowledge, and the income, too,
Should teach you better what to do:
The meanest drudges, kept in pay,
Can pocket fifty cents a day.
Why stay in such a tasteless land, Where all must on a level stand, (Excepting people, at their ease, Who choose the level where they please:) See Irving gone to Britain's court To people of another sort, He will return, with wealth and fame, While Yankees hardly know your name.
Lo! he has kissed a Monarch's--hand! Before a prince I see him stand, And with the glittering nobles mix, Forgetting times of seventy-six, While you with terror meet the frown Of Bank Directors of the town, The home-made nobles of our times, Who hate the bard, and spurn his rhymes.
Why pause?--like Irving, haste away, To England your addresses pay; And England will reward you well, Of British feats, and British arms, The maids of honor, and their charms.
Dear bard, I pray you, take the hint, In England what you write and print, Republished here in shop, or stall, Will perfectly enchant us all: It will assume a different face, And post your name at every place, From splendid domes of first degree Where ladies meet, to sip their tea; From marble halls, where lawyers plead, Or Congress-men talk loud, indeed, To huts, where evening clubs appear, And 'squires resort--to guzzle Beer.

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