TO A FRIEND AFRAID OF CRITICS.
Yet cavil at it; putting in his buts'
And ‘yets' and little obvious hints,
That though 'tis good, the critic could have made
A work superior in its every part.
Another, in a pert and savage mood,
Without a reason, will condemn thee quite,
And strive to quench thee in a paragraph.
Another with dishonest waggery,
Will twist, misquote, and uttterly pervert
Thy thought and words; and hug himself meanwhile
In the delusion, pleasant to his soul,
That thou art crush'd, and he a gentleman.
Another with a specious fair pretence,
Immaculately wise, will skim thy book,
And self-sufficient, from his desk look down
With undisguised contempt on thee and thine;
And sneer and snarl thee from his weekly court,
From an idea, spawn of his conceit,
That the best means to gain a great renown
For wisdom, is to sneer at all the world,
With strong denial that a good exists;
That all is bad, imperfect, feeble, stale,
Except this critic who outshines mankind.
Another, with a foolish zeal, will prate
Of thy great excellence; and on thy head
Heap epithet on epithet of praise
In terms preposterous, that thou wilt blush
To be so smother'd with such fulsome lies.
Another, calmer, with laudations thin,
Unsavory and weak, will make it seem
That his good nature, not thy merit, prompts
The baseless adulation of his pen.
Another, with a bull-dog's bark, will bay
Foul names against thee for some fancied slight
Which thou ne'er dream'd of, and will damn thy work
For spite against the worker; while the next,
Who thinks thy faith or politics a crime,
Will bray displeasure from his monthly stall,
And prove thee dunce, that disagreest with him.
And, last of all, some solemn sage, whose nod
Trimestrial, awes a world of little wits,
Will carefully avoid to name thy name,
Although thy words are in the mouths of men
And thy ideas in their inmost hearts,
Moulding events, and fashioning thy time
To nobler efforts. Little matters it:
Whate'er thou art, thy value will appear.
If thou art bad, no praise will buoy thee up;
If thou art good, no censure weigh thee down,
Nor silence, nor neglect prevent thy fame.
So fear not thou the critics! Speak thy thought;
And, if thou'rt worthy, in the people's love
Thy name shall live, while lasts thy mother tongue.
We want no flag, no flaunting rag,
For LIBERTY to fight;
We want no blaze of murderous guns,
To struggle for the right.
Our spears and swords are printed words,
The mind our battle-plain;
We've won such victories before,
And so we shall again.
We love no triumphs sprung of force —
They stain her brightest cause:
'Tis not in blood that Liberty
Inscribes her civil laws.
She writes them on the people's heart
In language clear and plain;
True thoughts have moved the world before, And so they shall again.
That his good nature, not thy merit, prompts
The baseless adulation of his pen.
Another, with a bull-dog's bark, will bay
Foul names against thee for some fancied slight
Which thou ne'er dream'd of, and will damn thy wor
For spite against the worker; while the next,
Who thinks thy faith or politics a crime,
Will bray displeasure from his monthly stall,
And prove thee dunce, that disagreest with him.
And, last of all, some solemn sage, whose nod
Trimestrial, awes a world of little wits,
Will carefully avoid to name thy name,
Although thy words are in the mouths of men
And thy ideas in their inmost hearts,
Moulding events, and fashioning thy time
To nobler efforts. Little matters it:
Whate'er thou art, thy value will appear.
If thou art bad, no praise will buoy thee up;
If thou art good, no censure weigh thee down,
Nor silence, nor neglect prevent thy fame.
So fear not thou the critics! Speak thy though
And, if thou'rt worthy, in the people's love
Thy name shall live, while lasts thy mother to
Children, I die! I'm going home!
All pangs, save one, have pass'd away,
All griefs and sufferings of clay,
Except this lingering, fond distress,
That yields not to forgetfulness
The last affection of my heart,
The pain, the grief, that we must part.
No more! a hope to sorrow given
Says earthly love may bloom in heaven,
May soar, if pure, to God's right hand :
I go, I seek the happy land.
Ah! no, not yet; the sunshine fair
Revives me for a while: the air
Blows calm and cool. Oh, living breath!
It gives me strength to look on death.
It gives me courage to implore,
By all the love you ever bore,
A foolish, fond, but last request,
That you will choose
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