The Critic

Excluded from the sun's reviving light, His windows clos'd to change the day to night, The Critic sits within his room;

Therein he meditates his silent schemes Of penetration, and of wisdom dreams, And honors that will ever bloom.

Within his hand the venom'd pen he holds, Th' unblemish'd paper to his pleasure solds, And sits in gloomy thought profound;

For minutes thus, the God-like man remains, To exercise he calls his envious brains, And casts his eyes in awful gaze around.

Upon his paper, then his thoughts he pens, With pleasure grinning wide his mouth extends, And pulls his pug and crabbed nose;

Then to the ceiling heaves his rolling eyes, And for another sage remark he plies, And claws his head whence satire flows.

No smile of candour dwells upon his face, No gentle pity in the wretch we trace, Not inexperienc'd youth he'll spare;

O'er excellence he throws a transient glance, But dwells on faults and blemishes of chance, And to a cable magnifies a hair.

Critic! in all your terrors come array'd! Your pen malicious, and your wit, invade! I bid defiance to your sneers!

The candid, generous, public will excuse, The feeble efforts of the youthful muse, Her humble gift receive and sooth her fears.