A Poet, too, was there, whose verse Was tender, musical, and terse; The inspiration, the delight, The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem The revelations of a dream, All these were his; but with them came No envy of another's fame; He did not find his sleep less sweet, For music in some neighboring street Nor rustling hear in every breeze The laurels of Miltiades. Honor and blessings on his head While living, good report when dead, Who, not too eager for renown, Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown!
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