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 Part in forevision of the attentive look And laughing glance that may one time reward them, When the fresh ore, this day dug up, at last Shall, thrice refined and purified, from the mint Of conversation intellectual Into the golden currency of wit Issue—satirical or pointed sentence, Impromptu, epigram, or it may be sonnet, Heir undisputed to the pinkiest page In the album of a literary lady.

And can it be, you ask me, that a man, With the strong arm, the cunning faculties, And keenest forethought gifted, and, within, Longings unspeakable, the lingering echoes Responsive to the still-still-calling voice Of God Most High,—should disregard all these, And half-employ all those for such an aim As the light sympathy of successful wit, Vain titillation of a moment's praise? Why, so is good no longer good, but crime Our truest, best advantage, since it lifts us Out of the stifling gas of men's opinion Into the vital atmosphere of Truth, Where He again is visible, tho' in anger.