To Zoilus[322]

[A Severe Critic]

Six sheets compos'd, struck off, and dry The work may please the world (thought I)-- If some impell'd by spleen or spite, Refuse to read, then let them write: I too, with them, shall have my turn, And give advice--to tear or burn.

Now from the binder's, hurried home, In neat array my leaves are come: Alas, alas! is this my all? The volume is so light and small, That, aim to save it as I can, 'Twill fly before Myrtilla's fan.

Why did I no precautions use? To curb these frolics of the Muse? Ah! why did I invoke the nine To aid these humble toils of mine-- That now forebode through every page The witling's sneer, the critic's rage.

Did I, for this, so often rise Before the sun illum'd the skies, And near my Hudson's mountain stream Invoke the Muses' morning dream, And scorn the winds that blew so cool! I did--and I was more the fool.

Yet slender tho' the book, and small, And harmless, take it all in all, I see a monstrous wight appear, A quill suspended from his ear; Its fate depends on his decree, And what he says must sacred be!

A brute of such terrific mien At wild Sanduski ne'er was seen, And in the dark Kentuckey groves No beast, like this, for plunder roves, Nor dwells in Britain's lowering clime A reptile, so severe on rhyme.

The monster comes, severe and slow, His eyes with arrowy lightnings glow, Takes up the book, surveys it o'er, Exclaims, "damn'd stuff!"--but says no more: The book is damn'd by his decree, And what he says must gospel be!

But was there nothing to his taste?-- Was all my work a barren waste-- Was not one bright idea sown, And not one image of my own?-- Its doom was just, if this be true: But Zoilus shall be sweated too.

Give me a cane of mighty length, A staff proportion'd to my strength, Like that, by whose destructive aid The man of Gath his conquests made; Like that, which once on Etna's shore The shepherd of the mountain bore:

For wit traduc'd at such a rate To other worlds I'll send him, straight, Where all the past shall nothing seem, Or just be imag'd, like a dream; Where new vexations are design'd, No dull quietus for the mind!

Arm'd with a staff of such a size Who would not smite this man of lies: Here, scribbler, help me! seize that pen With which he blasts all rhyming men: His goose-quill must not with him go To persecute the bards below.--

How vast a change an hour may bring! How abject lies this snarling thing! No longer wit to him shall bow, To him the world is nothing now; And all he writ, and all he read Is, with himself, in silence laid!

Dead tho' he be--(not sent to rest) No keen remorse torments my breast: Yet, something in me seems to tell I might have let him live, as well;-- 'Twas his to snarl, and growl, and grin, And life had, else, a burthen been.

This was first published in the Freeman's Journal, Oct 11, 1786, though it undoubtedly was written before the poet left Philadelphia. It was republished in the 1788 edition under the title "The Pamphleteer and the Critic." The text follows the 1795 edition.

ON THE LEGISLATURE OF GREAT-BRITAIN PROHIBITING THE SALE, IN LONDON, OF

Doctor David Ramsay's History of the Revolutionary war in South Carolina

Some bold bully Dawson, expert in abusing, Having passed all his life in the practice of bruising; At last, when he thinks to reform and repent, And wishes his days had been soberly spent, Though a course of contrition in earnest begins, He scarcely can bear to be told of his sins. So the British, worn out with their wars in the west (Where burning and murder their prowess confessed) When, at last, they agreed 'twas in vain to contend (For the days of their thieving were come to an end) They hired some historians to scribble and flatter, And foolishly thought they could hush up the matter. But Ramsay arose, and with Truth on his side, Has told to the world what they laboured to hide; With his pen of dissection, and pointed with steel, If they ne'er before felt he has taught them to feel, Themselves and their projects has truly defined, And dragged them to blush at the bar of mankind. As the author, his friends, and the world might expect, They find that the work has a damning effect-- In reply to his Facts they abuse him and rail, And prompted by malice, prohibit the sale. But, we trust, their chastisement is only begun; Thirteen are the States--and he writes but of one; Ere the twelve that are silent their story have told, The king will run mad, and the book will be sold.

Freeman's Journal, Oct. 11, dated Philadelphia, Oct. 9. The text follows the edition of 1809.

David Ramsay's "History of the Revolution in South Carolina," was published at Trenton, New Jersey, in 1785.