Classic Poem

ADDRESS TO THE CRITICS .

Y E puny things, who self-important sit
The sovereign arbiters of monthly wit;
Who, gnatling-like, your stings around dispense,
And feed on excrements of sickly sense;
Ye gentle Critics, whom, by Fancy led,
My Pegasus has kick'd upon the head,
Who, zealous to decry the' injurious strain,
While Common-sense has bled at every vein;
Bewilder'd wander on, with idiot-pride,
Without or wit or grammar for your guide;
Behold! again I blot the' envenom'd page,
Come, whet your tiny stings, exhaust your rage:
Here wreak your vengeance, here exert your skill,
Let blustering Kenrick draw his raven's quill:
My claims to genius let each dunce disown,
And damn all strains more favour'd than their own.
Where Pegasus, who ambled at fifteen,
No longer sporting on the rural green,
Rampant breaks forth: now flies the peaceful plains,
And bounds, impetuous, heedless of the reins,
O'er earth's vast surface madly scours along,
Nor spares a critic, gaping in the throng;
Truth rides hehind, and prompts the wild career;
And; truth my guardian, what have I to fear?
Oh, Truth! thou sole director of my views,
Whom yet I love far dearer than the Muse!
Teach me myself in every sense to know,
Proof 'gainst the' injurious shafts of friend or foe.
When smooth-tongued flatterers my ears assail,
May my firm soul disdain the fulsome tale!
And ah! from pride thy votive bard defend,
Though Conway smile, or Chesterfield commend!
Unmov'd by squibs from all the scribbling throng,
Whom thou proclaim'st the refuse of my song;
Still may I safe between the danger steer
Of Scylla-flattery, and Charybdis-fear!
Those foes to Genius (should'st thou grant my claim!)
Those wrecks alike of reason and of fame.