At last, O Walt, you are endorsed; no more
Your muse of the shadow of neglect will feel.
The "Atlantic Monthly" squirts have their seal
To your credentials: your probation 'a o'er
Be happy, then, O bard, and drink galore;
Your "yawp" is classic now, if ne'er before.
'Tis true that long ago the great Reviews
Of Albion halled with joy your new-world muse
As native here and to the manor born.
The "satin-and-patchouly" bards their scorn.
Still vented on your long, unmeasured little,
Ruffled in wrath their borrowed feathers fine
At "Leaves of Grass" and mention of your name,
Though Tennyson, their master, owned your fame.
B.
Formerly the price of Liberty was eternal vigilance, then it could be had for fifty cents a year - Now only a click away.
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