Classic Poem

Critics of art, connoisseurs of fair Fame,
Who on her bulwarks stand, to guard the way
Unto the courts wherein her favored dwell,
Where they have gained admittance by the pass
"True merit," which alone can bring them there;
Thine is the power the unworthy to debar,
To tell them that they are unfit to come
To seek a standing near her honored throne.
Away in sorrow the beseigers turn,
Foiled in their effort, to more humble scenes,
With showers of censure pouring round them fast,
And shame in volleys flying on to them.
These are thy missiles, and they lose no mark,
But bear sore torture to the vanquished wretch,
Until oblivion hides him from their power.
Stay they to barter, then the task is vain;
'Tis but a weary while they can withstand
The many darts sent with a fatal aim.
I make me bold to speak a word with thee,
Though better far my tongue had held its peace,
And though my mission be a barren task,
And woe betide me in the course I take.
If ye my motive deem it good to ask,
In form of motto, I will give it thus:
"He who doth not to battle venture forth
No trophy takes, as they who go to win."
It is not meet that I should dare to judge
If Merit tend me in the mission here;
But I will trust that Honor may attend,
And that ye will a fair decision give.
I urge no claim to learning high and great,
Nor kinship to the noble in descent,
Nor hold a name to offer of renown;
But from the ranks of secret come, unknown,
And trust in time of fortune to advance,
Then to behold thee in a happy mood.
For men have moods which to their acts imply
An impulse, which doth change the scenes in view
From cheerful unto gloomy, or reverse;
And critics, doubtless, are as other men,
Prone to the changes which incite the throng.