War Drums (Scharkie)/A Pedlar's Reflection on some Critics
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A PEDLAR'S REFLECTION ON SOME CRITICS.
One word will set a critic,—well,
It makes him lose his better senses;
And e'er he tugs them back from hell,
They've manufactured sulphurous offences.
It makes him lose his better senses;
And e'er he tugs them back from hell,
They've manufactured sulphurous offences.
Gold ore of thought, and sense, and sound—
Purest and best, they wildly ask for—
And bright, and perfect, and profound,
No more: be sure, they could not scarcely ask more.
Purest and best, they wildly ask for—
And bright, and perfect, and profound,
No more: be sure, they could not scarcely ask more.
Oh hell! beyond thine own precincts,
Assayists, too, can filch and plunder.
So many have illicit mints—
The poor are rubbed, a fool need scarcely wonder.
Assayists, too, can filch and plunder.
So many have illicit mints—
The poor are rubbed, a fool need scarcely wonder.
And far their flaming products fly,
So mixed and general, each a new one,
That, past the ken of human eye,
T'would take the devil to detect a true one.
So mixed and general, each a new one,
That, past the ken of human eye,
T'would take the devil to detect a true one.
O age intrepid, fierce, and false!
O science! truth! acataleptic—
We dare not swallow half your tales—
Egregious morals, and propounds dyspeptic.
O science! truth! acataleptic—
We dare not swallow half your tales—
Egregious morals, and propounds dyspeptic.
Nor must he who would up aspire,
Give heed to all embrinded quip-thongs,
Which Momus, in felonious ire,
Blows coarsely in a hundred fashioned lip songs.
*****
All men are critics—but the bane
Is here so few are fit for teaching.
Good lack of forethought, and of brain,
Makes insolence a trifle over-reaching.
Give heed to all embrinded quip-thongs,
Which Momus, in felonious ire,
Blows coarsely in a hundred fashioned lip songs.
*****
All men are critics—but the bane
Is here so few are fit for teaching.
Good lack of forethought, and of brain,
Makes insolence a trifle over-reaching.
Like wags we pass in every street,
Who waste their time in lilt and ditty,
Scorning the hand that gives them meat—
Sure they deserve the same contempt and pity.
Who waste their time in lilt and ditty,
Scorning the hand that gives them meat—
Sure they deserve the same contempt and pity.
Heav'n help the thought—no wiser fools
From wholesome pasturage could wean us
So many simple-hearted mules
Bestridden gaily by a lewd Silenus.
From wholesome pasturage could wean us
So many simple-hearted mules
Bestridden gaily by a lewd Silenus.
Alas, alas,—as thick as crass—
That such should be the common leaders—
Stern demagogues, more like the ass,
Than him th' unraveller of abstruse procedures.
That such should be the common leaders—
Stern demagogues, more like the ass,
Than him th' unraveller of abstruse procedures.
Remember, ye! the world is wide,
And modes of thought and sense are many;
And fools are they who'd scarce divide
A fair unbiased share with all or any.
And modes of thought and sense are many;
And fools are they who'd scarce divide
A fair unbiased share with all or any.
Low facial forms of shallow thought
Are creeping into wisdom's temple;
And some large brains, once deeply wrought,
Are growing crudely undersized and simple.
Are creeping into wisdom's temple;
And some large brains, once deeply wrought,
Are growing crudely undersized and simple.
The narrow limits of their own
Excludes the light that sees completer,
In denseness, depth, in strangeness, tone,
And pictured being in emollient metre.
Excludes the light that sees completer,
In denseness, depth, in strangeness, tone,
And pictured being in emollient metre.
Such critics, they!—'twere waste to find
Them true befitting nomenclature.
Not essence, they, of soul and mind,
But crude concoctions of a blasted nature.
Them true befitting nomenclature.
Not essence, they, of soul and mind,
But crude concoctions of a blasted nature.