Let lowly themes engage my humble pen — Stupidities of critics, not of men. Be it mine once more the maunderings to trace Of the expounders’ self-directed race —
Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine, Of diligent vacuity the sign. Let them in jargon of their trade rehearse The moral meaning of the random verse
That runs spontaneous from the poet's pen To be half-blotted by ambitious men Who hope with his their meaner names to link By writing o'er it in another ink
The thoughts unreal which they think they think, Until the mental eye in vain inspects The hateful palimpsest to find the text. The lark ascending heavenward, loud and long
Sings to the dawning day his wanton song. The moaning dove, attentive to the sound, Its hidden meaning hastens to expound: Explains its principles, design — in brief,
Pronounces it a parable of grief! The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his thigh With pollen from a hollyhock near by, Declares he never heard in terms so just
The labor problem thoughtfully discussed! The browsing ass looks up and clears his whistle To say: “A monologue upon the thistle!” Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds his wing
And innocently asks: “What!— did I sing?” O literary parasites! who thrive Upon the fame of better men, derive Your sustenance by suction, like a leech,
And, for you preach of them, think masters preach,— Who find it half is profit, half delight, To write about what you could never write,— Consider, pray, how sharp had been the throes
Of famine and discomfiture in those You write of if they had been critics, too, And doomed to write of nothing but of you! Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder tent,
To see the lion resolutely bent! The prosing showman who the beast displays Grows rich and richer daily in its praise. But how if, to attract the curious yeoman,
The lion owned the show and showed the showman?
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