Henry Ellison (1811–1880)

PROUD Poet, think’st thou that the mass of men,

Low as they seem beneath thy fancied height,

Have yet no other sources of delight,

No poesy, save that of thy poor pen?

Little as distance makes them to thy ken,

Haply that self-same distance, to their sight,

Makes thee as little seem, and with more right,

Who deem’st thyself not of them, and art then,

And just for this, beneath them.—Is yon Sun,

Rising in glory, not far better, pray,

Than thy description of it? the lark’s lay

Itself, than all thy verses on it? one

Sweet flower more than all that thou canst say,

And far beyond thy best comparison?