“The Quaker Poet!”— is such name

A simple designation;—

Or one expressive of my shame,

And thy vituperation?—

If but the former— I, for one,

Have no objection to it;

A name, as such, can startle none

Who rationally view it.

But if such title would convey

Contempt, or reprobation,

Allow me, briefly as I may,

To state my vindication.

It is not splendour of costume

That prompts harmonious numbers;—

The nightingale, of sober plume,

Sings, while the peacock slumbers.

The shallow brooks, in spring so gay,

In summer soonest fail us;

Their sparkling pride has pass’d away,

Their sounds no more regale us.

While the more deep, but quiet streams,

By alders overshaded,

Flow on, in spite of scorching beams,

Their beauties uninvaded.

And on their peaceful verge we see

Green grass, fresh flowers, and round them

Hover the butterfly and bee,—

Rejoicing to have found them.

Is it the gayest of the gay,

The votaries of fashion,

Who feel most sensibly the sway

Of pure and genuine passion?

No!—hearts there be, the world deems cold,

As warm, as true, as tender

As those which gayer robes enfold,

However proud their splendour.

Of mine I speak not:—He, alone,

Who form’d, can truly know it;

Nor of my verse;—I frankly own

Myself no lofty poet.

But I contend the Quaker creed,

By fair interpretation,

Has nothing in it to impede

Poetic aspiration:

All that fair nature's charms display

Of grandeur, or of beauty;

All that the human heart can sway,

Joy, grief, desire, or duty;—

All these are ours—The copious source

Of true poetic feeling:—

And wouldst thou check their blameless course,

Our lips in silence sealing?

Nature, to allher ample page

Impartially unfolding,

Prohibits neither saint, nor sage,

Its beauties from beholding.

And thus the muse her gifts bestows

With no sectarian spirit,

Her laurel wreaths invest the brows

Which such distinctions merit.

Through every age, in every clime,

Her favour’d sons have flourish’d;

Have felt her energy sublime,

Her pure delights have nourish’d.