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159
OF KEATS.
'Tis said, a Keats by critics, once was killed,
Alas! they have lacked power to do this thing
In these late days, or else some blood was spilled,
They softly bite to-day, or kick and fling.
Alas! they have lacked power to do this thing
In these late days, or else some blood was spilled,
They softly bite to-day, or kick and fling.
Let them pluck courage from the Bravo's knife,
And stick their victims in small streets by dark,
Or somehow skillfully cut out their life,
Do something that must pain them, but not bark.
And stick their victims in small streets by dark,
Or somehow skillfully cut out their life,
Do something that must pain them, but not bark.
And most of all let them kill Keats alway,
Or him that can be killed, as sure as steel,
For many Keats's creep about our day,
Who would not furnish Heroes half a meal.
Or him that can be killed, as sure as steel,
For many Keats's creep about our day,
Who would not furnish Heroes half a meal.
Who writes by Fate the critics shall not kill,
Nor all the assassins in the great review,
Who writes by luck his blood some Hack shall spill,
Some Ghost whom a Musquito might run through.
Nor all the assassins in the great review,
Who writes by luck his blood some Hack shall spill,
Some Ghost whom a Musquito might run through.
160
Of Keat's poetry I have small taste,
But trust some Critics still are in the field,
Whose well-puffed Pills are not composed of paste,
Whose swords of lath with wisdom they do wield.
But trust some Critics still are in the field,
Whose well-puffed Pills are not composed of paste,
Whose swords of lath with wisdom they do wield.
For me, I trust they will not spare one line,
Or else in frozen silence may abide,
Pray may they hack like butchers at all mine,
And kill me like that Keats if it betide.
Or else in frozen silence may abide,
Pray may they hack like butchers at all mine,
And kill me like that Keats if it betide.
Or if they courteous damn me with faint praise,
Let some old Hunter of the pack be set
To track me out, and fasten on my lays
His toothless gums, or let them all forget.
Let some old Hunter of the pack be set
To track me out, and fasten on my lays
His toothless gums, or let them all forget.
I ope my arms to them,—the world beside,—
O awful God! who over verse dost sway,
Thine eye does scan me,—in thy flowing tide,
I, like a leaf, am eddying whirled away.
O awful God! who over verse dost sway,
Thine eye does scan me,—in thy flowing tide,
I, like a leaf, am eddying whirled away.
Could but the faintest echo from my lyre,
Within Thy ear awake one choral thought,
I then had gained my earnest Heart's desire,
This battle then securely I had fought.
Within Thy ear awake one choral thought,
I then had gained my earnest Heart's desire,
This battle then securely I had fought.
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