While on Fourth-of-Julys beardless orators fright one
With hints at Harmodius and Aristogeiton, 930
You need not look shy at your sisters and brothers
Who stab with sharp words for the freedom of others;—­
No, a wreath, twine a wreath for the loyal and true
Who, for sake of the many, dared stand with the few,
Not of blood-spattered laurel for enemies braved,
But of broad, peaceful oak-leaves for citizens saved!

’Here comes Dana, abstractedly loitering along,
Involved in a paulo-post-future of song,
Who’ll be going to write what’ll never be written
Till the Muse, ere he think of it, gives him the mitten,—­ 940
Who is so well aware of how things should be done,
That his own works displease him before they’re begun,—­
Who so well all that makes up good poetry knows,
That the best of his poems is written in prose;
All saddled and bridled stood Pegasus waiting,
He was booted and spurred, but he loitered debating;
In a very grave question his soul was immersed,—­
Which foot in the stirrup he ought to put first: 
And, while this point and that he judicially dwelt on,
He, somehow or other, had written Paul Felton, 950
Whose beauties or faults, whichsoever you see there,
You’ll allow only genius could hit upon either. 
That he once was the Idle Man none will deplore,
But I fear he will never be anything more;
The ocean of song heaves and glitters before him,
The depth and the vastness and longing sweep o’er him. 
He knows every breaker and shoal on the chart,
He has the Coast Pilot and so on by heart,
Yet he spends his whole life, like the man in the fable,
In learning to swim on his library table. 960

’There swaggers John Neal, who has wasted in Maine
The sinews and cords of his pugilist brain,
Who might have been poet, but that, in its stead, he
Preferred to believe that he was so already;
Too hasty to wait till Art’s ripe fruit should drop,
He must pelt down an unripe and colicky crop;
Who took to the law, and had this sterling plea for it,
It required him to quarrel, and paid him a fee for it;
A man who’s made less than he might have, because
He always has thought himself more than he was,—­ 970
Who, with very good natural gifts as a bard,
Broke the strings of his lyre out by striking too hard,
And cracked half the notes of a truly fine voice,
Because song drew less instant attention than noise. 
Ah, men do not know how much strength is in poise,
That he goes the farthest who goes far enough,
And that all beyond that is just bother and stuff. 
No vain man matures, he makes too much new wood;
His blooms are too thick for the fruit to be good;
’Tis the modest man ripens, ’tis he that achieves, 980
Just what’s needed of sunshine and shade he receives;
Grapes, to mellow, require the cool dark of their