 | Poems |  |
71
TO A MALIGNANT CRITIC.
Rail at him, brave spirit! surround him with foes!
The wolf 's at his door, and there 's none to defend;
He 's as “poor as a crow;” give him lustier blows,
And do n't be alarmed, for he has n't a friend.
The wolf 's at his door, and there 's none to defend;
He 's as “poor as a crow;” give him lustier blows,
And do n't be alarmed, for he has n't a friend.
Now twirl your red steel in the wound you have made,—
His wife lies a-dying, his children are dead;
He'll soon be alone, man, so do n't be afraid,
But give him a thrust that will keep down his head.
His wife lies a-dying, his children are dead;
He'll soon be alone, man, so do n't be afraid,
But give him a thrust that will keep down his head.
He has n't a sixpence to buy his wife's shroud,
He “writes for a living,” so stab him again!
Raise a laugh, as he timidly shrinks from the crowd,
And hunt him like blood-hound, most valiant of men!
He “writes for a living,” so stab him again!
Raise a laugh, as he timidly shrinks from the crowd,
And hunt him like blood-hound, most valiant of men!
72
Ha! finished at last;—there he hangs; cut him down;
“A fine manly forehead!” I hear you exclaim;—
Now choose your next victim, to tickle the town,
And your heart-pointed pen shall reap plenty of fame!
“A fine manly forehead!” I hear you exclaim;—
Now choose your next victim, to tickle the town,
And your heart-pointed pen shall reap plenty of fame!
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