Filled with a zeal to serve my fellow men, For years I criticised their prose and verges: Pointed out all their blunders of the pen, Their shallowness of thought and feeling; then
Damned them up hill and down with hearty curses! They said: “That's all that he can do — just sneer, And pull to pieces and be analytic. Why does n't he himself, eschewing fear,
Publish a book or two, and so appear As one who has the right to be a critic? “Let him who knows it all forbear to tell How little others know, but show his learning.”
The public added: “Who has written well May censure freely” — quoting Pope. I fell Into the trap and books began out-turning,— Books by the score — fine prose and poems fair,
And not a book of them but was a terror, They were so great and perfect; though I swear I tried right hard to work in, here and there, ( My nature still forbade ) a fault or error.
‘ Tis true, some wretches, whom I'd scratched, no doubt, Professed to find — but that's a trifling matter. Now, when the flood of noble books was out I raised o'er all that land a joyous shout,
Till I was thought as mad as any hatter! ( Why hatters all are mad, I cannot say. ‘ T were wrong in their affliction to revile‘ em, But truly, you'll confess‘ tis very sad
We wear the ugly things they make. Begad, They'd be less mischievous in an asylum! ) “Consistency, thou art a” — well, you're paste! When next I felt my demon in possession,
And made the field of authorship a waste, All said of me: “What execrable taste, To rail at others of his own profession!” Good Lord! where do the critic's rights begin
Who has of literature some clear-cut notion, And hears a voice from Heaven say: “Pitch in”? He finds himself — alas, poor son of sin — Between the devil and the deep blue ocean!
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