TO A YOUNG POET.
THE camel at the city-gate —
Bends his flat head, and there must wait.
Thin in the desert is the palm,
And pierced the thorn to give its balm.
The Land of Promise thou shalt see,
I swear it, by myself and thee;
Rise, cheer thee up, and look around,
All earth is not for deer and hound;
Worms revel in the slime of kings,
But perish where the laurel springs.