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a person is a poet, No matter what the pang may be; Does not at once the public know it? Witness each newspaper we see.

"The parting look," "the bitter token," "The last despair," "the first distress;" "The anguish of a heart that’s broken—" Do not these crowd the daily press?

If then our misnamed "heartless city," Can so much sympathy bestow; If there is so much public pity For every kind of private woe;

Why not for me?—my care’s more real Than that of all this rhyming band; Whose hearts and tears are all ideal, A sort of joint-stock kept on hand.

I’m one of those, I do confess, Whom pity greatly can console; To tell, is almost to redress, Whate’er the "sorrow of my soul." Now, I who thought the first* vexatious, Despaired, and knew not what to do, Abused the stars, called fate ungracious— Here is a second Chinese view!

I sent to Messrs. Fisher, saying The simple fact—I could not write; What was the use of my inveighing?— Back came the fatal scroll that night.

"But, madam, such a fine engraving, The country, too, so little known!" One’s publisher there is no braving— The plate was work’d, "the dye was thrown."