THE CHINESE PAGODA.
Whene'er a person is a poet,
No matter what the pang may be;
Does not at once the public know it?
Witness each newspaper we see.
"The parting look," "the bitter token,"
"The last despair," "the first distress;"
"The anguish of a heart that’s broken—"
Do not these crowd the daily press?
If then our misnamed "heartless city,"
Can so much sympathy bestow;
If there is so much public pity
For every kind of private woe;
Why not for me?—my care’s more real
Than that of all this rhyming band;
Whose hearts and tears are all ideal,
A sort of joint-stock kept on hand.
I’m one of those, I do confess,
Whom pity greatly can console;
To tell, is almost to redress,
Whate’er the "sorrow of my soul."
Now, I who thought the first* vexatious,
Despaired, and knew not what to do,
Abused the stars, called fate ungracious—
Here is a second Chinese view!
I sent to Messrs. Fisher, saying
The simple fact—I could not write;
What was the use of my inveighing?—
Back came the fatal scroll that night.
"But, madam, such a fine engraving,
The country, too, so little known!"
One’s publisher there is no braving—
The plate was work’d, "the dye was thrown."
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