Classic Poem

How often we hear some kind critic inveigh
Against some one — not present, you know!
How he'd have done this thing a far different way,
And that thing have done so and so.
He will analyze closely each venial sin,
Each motive or speech tear apart;
Then, suddenly conscious, will deftly slip in
The cant of the excellent heart!

The absent one's clothes he will oft criticise —
They are either too coarse or too fine;
Profoundly he'll gabble and look very wise
O'er some fellow's fondness for wine.
Like a Guayaquil parrot, he'll chatter all day,
Down Ruin's road every one start;
Then, rememb'ring himself, have something to say
Of the undoubtedly excellent heart!

The absent one thinks that the critic's his friend,
For he's eaten his bread and his salt,
And will lend him his money if he has it to lend —
For he's generous, is he, to a fault.
But the critic is blind to all virtues, be sure,
Save when they add gall to his dart;
But one balm does he offer his back-wounds to cure;
Oh, I am sick of that excellent heart!