A harvest of barren regrets. And the worm That crawls on in the dust to the definite term Of its creeping existence, and sees nothing more Than the path it pursues till its creeping be o'er, In its limited vision, is happier far Than the Half-Sage, whose course, fix'd no friendly star Is by each star distracted in turn, and who knows Each will still be as distant wherever he goes. [From Lucile.] A CHARACTER. THE banker, well known As wearing the longest philacteried gown Of all the rich Pharisees England can boast of; A shrewd Puritan Scot, whose sharp wits made the most of This world and the next; having largely invested Not only where treasure is never molested By thieves, moth, or rust; but on this earthly ball Where interest was high, and security small, Of mankind there was never a theory yet Not by some individual instance up set: And so to that sorrowful verse of the Psalm Alas, friend! what boots it, a stone at his head Which declares that the wicked ex- And a brass on his breast, pand like the palm In a world where the righteous are stunted and pent, A cheering exception did Ridley pre sent. Like the. worthy of Uz, Heaven pros pered his piety. The leader of every religious society, Christian knowledge he labored through life to promote With personal profit, and knew how to quote - when a man is once dead? Ay! were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon were then Theirs who, stripping life bare, stand forth models for men. The reformer's?-a creed by posterity learnt A century after its author is burnt! The poet's?—a laurel that hides the bald brow It hath blighted! The painters? ask Raphael now The Which Madonna's authentic! statesman's-a name For parties to blacken, or boys to declaim! The soldier's?-three lines on the cold Abbey pavement! Were this all the life of the wise and the brave meant, All it ends in, thrice better, Neæra, it were Unregarded to sport with thine odorous hair, Ishade Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the And be loved, while the roses yet bloom overhead, Than to sit by the lone hearth, and think the long thought, A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster, envied for naught Save the name of John Milton! For all men, indeed, Who in some choice edition may graciously read, [note, With fair illustration, and erudite The song which the poet in bitterness wrote, Beat the poet, and notably beat him, in this The joy of the genius is theirs, whilst they miss The grief of the man: Tasso's songnot his madness! CHARLES MACKAY. TO A FRIEND AFRAID OF CRITICS. Of him who cast it. Take the wise man's praise, And love thyself the more that thou couldst earn Meed so exalted; but the blame of fools, Let it blow over like an idle whiff The critics let me paint them as they are. Some few I know, and love them from my soul; One, if thou'rt great, will cite from thy new book The tames: passage,-something that thy soul Revolts at, now the inspiration's o'er, And sink into oblivion; - and will vaunt The thing as beautiful, transcendent, rare The best thing thou hast done! Another friend, With finer sense, will praise thy greatest thought, Yet cavil at it; putting in his "buts" And "yets," and little obvious hints, That though 'tis good, the critic could have made A work superior in its every part. Another, in a pert and savage mood, Without a reason, will condemn thee quite, And strive to quench thee in a paragraph. Another, with dishonest waggery, Will twist, misquote, and utterly per vert Thy thoughts and words; and hug himself meanwhile In the delusion, pleasant to his soul, That thou art crushed, and he a gentleman. Another, with a specious fair pre tence, Immaculately wise, will skim thy book, And, self-sufficient, from his desk look down With undisguised contempt on thee and thine; And sneer and snarl thee, from his weekly court, From an idea, spawn of his conceit, That the best means to gain a great renown For wisdom is to sneer at all the world, With strong denial that a good exists; That all is bad, imperfect, feeble, stale, Except this critic, who outshines mankind. Another, with a foolish zeal, will prate And would give all thou hast to blot Of thy great excellence, and on thy from print. head Another, calmer, with laudations thin, Unsavory and weak, will make it seem That his good-nature, not thy merit, prompts The baseless adulation of his pen. Another, with a bulldog's bark, will bay Foul names against thee for some fancied slight Our heads grow bare Of the bonnie brown hair, Which thou ne'er dream'dst of, and The life still pulses in our veins; will damn thy work For spite against the worker; while the next, Who thinks thy faith or politics a crime, Will bray displeasure from his month ly stall, And prove thee dunce, that disagre'st with him. And if the heart Be dulled in part, |