CXXVII. CRITIQUES OR CRITICS.
I. GREAT AUTHORITIES.
Three swine lay wallowing in the mire,
As fat as farmer could desire;
When one pig to the other said,
“Dost see the warm sun overhead?
Men call him great and wondrous fine,
Noble, glorious, and divine;
In my opinion, men are wrong,
And pile their epithets too strong.”
“And in mine, too,” said pig the second;
“The sun's less mighty than he's reckoned.
'Tis true he flares, and gives us light,
But then he disappears at night!
And, to my thought, more lovely far
Is the pale moon, or evening star,
They are not fierce enough to kill,
We can look at them when we will;
But not at him, so proud and hot,
He'd strike us blind as soon as not.”
“I quite agree,” said pig the third;
“Of course, his merits all have heard;
But no one tells of his disgrace,
Th' intemperate blotches on his face!
The fevers and the plagues he sends,
In short, he's flattered by his friends!
He's bright, no doubt, and all the rest,
But, to my thinking, moonlight's best!”
II. PLAGIARISM.
If I've a taper that I light
Where other tapers shine,
Am I a thief and plagiarist?
And is the light not mine?
And if my taper shed a ray
Much brighter than the first,
Is taper number one the best,
And mine the very worst?
You say my thoughts in Homer lurk
Perhaps! but I'd be told,
Where honest Homer found his thoughts.
And were they new or old?
The skylark sang in Homer's time!
I hear it in the blue,
Did this day's lark rob Homer's lark?
Sweet critic, tell me true.
III. KNOWLEDGE
What knows the critic of the book?
As much, it may be, as the rook,
Perched on the high cathedral tower,
Knows of the solemn organ's power
That heaves below with tides of sound,
Ebbing and flowing all around;
As much, it may be, as at Rome,
The fly upon St. Peter's dome
Knows of the architect's design,
Who planned and built that fane divine!
IV. A VERY DIFFERENT THING.
Smith stood before a prosperous butcher's shop
To warn intending purchasers away,
“Buy nothing here, nor joint, nor steak, nor chop,
Bad meat, short weight, and over much to pay.”
The butcher heard him, and his wrath was strong,
And suing Smith for libel, it was found,
That such trade injury and grievous wrong
Required the solace of a thousand pound.
The same old Smith wrote much for the Reviews,
Nothing could please him, whether prose or verse,
He loved to snarl, to cavil and abuse,
And never read a book except to curse.
A poet asked, “Shall this man slander me
And all my books, without the law's relief?”
Law answered “Yes!” Opinion must be free
On poem and romance; but not on BEEF!
V. THE ICONOCLASTS.
Revile him, decry him! he's better than you!
Disparage and scorn him, he's noble and true!
He has wrought the dull marble to beauty sublime,
He has poured his full soul into passionate rhyme,
He has written a book that shall comfort the poor,
As long as our language and name shall endure!
He is high! pull him down! and if dogs in the night
That howl at the moon for her beautiful light,
Can harm the fair planet that vexes their ken,
Oh, then ye shall damage him, then, my boys, then!
VI. HOMER AND SHAKSPEARE.
“A dream, which was not all a dream!”
Homer and Shakspeare, mighty pair,
Passed o'er my presence like a gleam
Of moonlight on the summer air.
And hark! they spoke! 'Twas Homer first:
“What silly fools are men!” he said,
“Neglecting living worth, to burst
In thunderous praises of the dead!
I never wrote the Iliad, no!
Only some ballads which I sung
For daily bread, long long ago
When Greece was valorous and young.
“As time wore on my ballads grew
By small addition line on line,
And swoll to bulk I never knew,
And swelling, were no longer mine.
I loathe the Iliad! but the ruck
Of pedants trumpet it aloud;
Dear Shakspeare, is it wit or luck
That makes us favourites of the crowd?”
“Dear Homer!” said the younger bard,
“Fame's but a word at random spread,
It leaves our best in disregard,
And vaunts our very worst instead.
My poems! darlings of my heart!
Men spurn or utterly ignore,
But plays I did not write, impart
Joy to dense donkeys by the score.
“They bray, they prate in long debate,
And call poor drivel quite divine,
Only because, whoever wrote,
They've learned to think the drivel mine.
Are there no critics to be born
Bright as the sunshine, clear as dew,
Who without prejudice or scorn
Will hold the balance fairly true?”
“Never!” said Homer; “never more!
The race has perished from the sod.
But why lament them, or deplore?
There are no critics left but God!”
