The critic's first labor is the task of distinguishing between men, as history and their works display them, and the ideals which one and another have conspired to urge upon his acceptance.
The poet who does not revere his art, and believe in its sovereignty, is not born to wear the purple.
Lo, as I gaze, the statured man, Built up from you large hand appears: A type that nature wills to plan But once in all a people's years.
Alas, by what rude fate Our lives, like ships at sea, an instant meet, Then part forever on their courses fleet.
Look on this cast, and know the hand That bore a nation in its hold; From this mute witness understand What Lincoln was - how large of mould.
Science has but one fashion-to lose nothing once gained.
No, he was no such charlatan-- Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-Pan-- Full of gasconade and bravado, But a regular, rich Don Rataplane, Santa Claus de la Muscavado, Senor Grandissimo Bastinado! His was the rental of half Havana And all Matanzas; and Santa Ana, Rich as he was, could hardly hold A candle to light the mines of gold Our Cuban owned.
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