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sending it, because, I fancy, that among all your friends, few had so earnest a desire to know your thoughts, and, I may say, so much regret at never seeing you, as I.
And the book, as I read in it, meets this curiosity of mine, by its poems of character and confidence, private lyrics, whose air and words [are] all your own. I have not gone so far in them as to have any criticism to offer you, and like better the pure pleasure I find in a new book of poetry so warm with life.
Perhaps, when I have finished the book, I shall ask the privilege of saying something further.
At present I content myself with thanking you.
With great regard, R. W. Emerson.
Oliver Wendell Holmes, always generous in his welcome to younger writers, sent the following poem, never before printed:--
If I were one, O Minstrel wild,
That held “the golden cup”
Not unto thee, Art's stolen child,
My hand should yield it up;
Why should I waste its gold on one
That holds a guerdon bright--
A chalice, flashing in the sun
Of perfect chrysolite.
And shaped on such a swelling sphere
As if some God had pressed
Its flowing crystal, soft and clear
On Hebe's virgin breast?
What though the bitter grapes of earth
Have mingled in its wine?
That held “the golden cup”
Not unto thee, Art's stolen child,
My hand should yield it up;
Why should I waste its gold on one
That holds a guerdon bright--
A chalice, flashing in the sun
Of perfect chrysolite.
And shaped on such a swelling sphere
As if some God had pressed
Its flowing crystal, soft and clear
On Hebe's virgin breast?
What though the bitter grapes of earth
Have mingled in its wine?
