Fragment: The False Laurel and the True
'What art thou, Presumptuous, who profanestThe wreath to mighty poets only due,Even whilst like a forgotten moon thou wanest?Touch not those leaves which for the eternal fewWho wander o'er the Paradise of fame,In sacred dedication ever grew:One of the crowd thou art without a name.''Ah, friend, 'tis the false laurel that I wear;Bright though it seem, it is not the sameAs that which bound Milton's immortal hair;Its dew is poison; and the hopes that quickenUnder its chilling shade, though seeming fair,Are flowers which die almost before they sicken.'
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