A Critic

[Apparently the Cleveland Leader is not a good judge of poetry.--The Morning Call.]

That from you, neighbor! to whose vacant lot Each rhyming literary knacker scourges His cart-compelling Pegasus to trot, As folly, fame or famine smartly urges?

Admonished by the stimulating goad, How gaily, lo! the spavined crow-bait prances-- Its cart before it--eager to unload The dead-dog sentiments and swill-tub fancies.

Gravely the sweating scavenger pulls out The tail-board of his curst imagination, Shoots all his rascal rubbish, and, no doubt, Thanks Fortune for so good a dumping-station.

To improve your property, the vile cascade Your thrift invites--to make a higher level. In vain: with tons of garbage overlaid, Your baseless bog sinks slowly to the devil.

"Rubbish may be shot here"--familiar sign! I seem to see it in your every column. You have your wishes, but if I had mine 'Twould to your editor mean something solemn.