WHY, let the stingless critic chide With all that fume of vacant pride Which mantles o'er the pedant fool, Like vapour on a stagnant pool! Oh! if the song, to feeling true, Can please the elect, the sacred few, Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught, Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought -- If some fond feeling maid like thee, The warm-eyed child of Sympathy, Shall say, while o'er my simple theme She languishes in Passion's dream, "He was, indeed, a tender soul -- No critic law, no chill control, Should ever freeze, by timid art, The flowings of so fond a heart!" Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love! That, hovering like a snow-wing'd dove, Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild, And hail'd me Passion's warmest child! Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye, From Feeling's breast the votive sigh; Oh! let my song, my memory, find A shrine within the tender mind; And I will scorn the critic's chide, And I will scorn the fume of pride, Which mantles o'er the pedant fool, Like vapour on a stagnant pool! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BED OF FORGET-ME-NOTS by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM by HENRY KIRKE WHITE THE HINT O' HAIRST by HEW AINSLIE THIS FLESH by KENNETH SLADE ALLING WINTER WIZARDRY by LAURA S. BECK |