I thought, old friend, a better gift to bring
  Than this poor garland, rather weeds than flowers,
  Not the rich product of calm leisured hours.
But such as I from toil and haste could wring;
Yet take it, since 'tis something of mine own.
  That bears at least the stamp of thought sincere.
  Which from no consequence recoils in fear.
But seeks for truth unveiled—and truth alone.

Like yours it is my greatest happiness
  To delve within the ancient mines of gold
  And disinter from dust, decay, and mould.
Long-buried treasures held in time's duresse;
  But here, a modern of the modern time,
  A spirit that questions all is in my rhyme.