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Ev’n filly woman has her warlike arts,
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and

darts.

But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard, To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the

Bard ! A thing unteachable in world's skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still. No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun ; No claws to dig, his hated fight to fhun; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn: No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur, Clad in rich Dulness' comfortable fur. In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears th' unbroken blaft from ev'ry fide : Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion Critics cureless venom dart.

Critics

M4

Critics-appall’d, I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : Bloody difsectors, worse than ten Monroes; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, By blockhead's daring into madness ftung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must

wear :

Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in th' unequal strife,
The hapless Poet flounders on thro' life.
Till fled each hope that once his bofom fir'd,
And fled each Muse that glorious once in-

spir'd,
Low-funk in fqualid, unprotected age,
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless Cri-

tic's rage!

So,

So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed de

ceas'd.

For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ;,
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,
Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son.

O Dulness! portion of the truly blest!
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal reft!

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Thy fons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high she fills the golden cup,
With sober selfish ease they sip it up.:
Conscious the bounteous meed they well de-

serve,
They only wonder “ some folks” do not starve.
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the Mallard a fad worthless dog.
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope,
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope,

With deaf endurance fluggishly they bear, And just conclude that “ fools are fortune's

care."

So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

Not fo the idle Muses' mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck

brain;

In equanimity they never dwell,
But turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell.

I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear! Already one strong hold of hope is lost, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust; (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears :) O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r! T*****, my other stay, long bless and spare !

Thra'

Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! May bliss domestic smooth his private path; Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest

breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of

death!

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