Thence, on maturer judgment's anvil wrought, The polish'd falsehood's into public brought. Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford; And reputation bleeds in every word. A critic was of old a glorious name, Whose sanction handed merit up to fame; 50 Beauties as well as faults he brought to view; His judgment great, and great his candour too; No servile rules drew sickly taste aside; Secure he walk'd, for Nature was his guide. But now--oh! strange reverse!--our critics bawl In praise of candour with a heart of gall; Conscious of guilt, and fearful of the light, They lurk enshrouded in the vale of night; Safe from detection, seize the unwary prey, And stab, like bravoes, all who come that way. 60 When first my Muse, perhaps more bold than wise, Bade the rude trifle into light arise, Little she thought such tempests would ensue; Less, that those tempests would be raised by you. The thunder's fury rends the towering oak, Rosciads, like shrubs, might 'scape the fatal stroke. Vain thought! a critic's fury knows no bound; Drawcansir-like, he deals destruction round; Nor can we hope he will a stranger spare, Who gives no quarter to his friend Voltaire.[85] 70 Unhappy Genius! placed by partial Fate With a free spirit in a slavish state; Where the reluctant Muse, oppress'd by kings, Or droops in silence, or in fetters sings! In vain thy dauntless fortitude hath borne The bigot's furious zeal, and tyrant's scorn. Why didst thou safe from home-bred dangers steer, Reserved to perish more ignobly here? Thus, when, the Julian tyrant's pride to swell, Rome with her Pompey at Pharsalia fell, 80 The vanquish'd chief escaped from Caesar's hand, To die by ruffians in a foreign land. How could these self-elected monarchs raise So large an empire on so small a base? In what retreat, inglorious and unknown, Did Genius sleep when Dulness seized the throne? Whence, absolute now grown, and free from awe, She to the subject world dispenses law. Without her licence not a letter stirs, And all the captive criss-cross-row is hers. 90 The Stagyrite, who rules from Nature drew, Opinions gave, but gave his reasons too. Our great Dictators take a shorter way-- Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say? Their word's sufficient; and to ask a reason, In such a state as theirs, is downright treason. True judgment now with them alone can dwell; Like Church of Rome, they're grown infallible. Dull superstitious readers they deceive, Who pin their easy faith on critic's sleeve, 100 And knowing nothing, everything believe! But why repine we that these puny elves Shoot into giants?--we may thank ourselves: Fools that we are, like Israel's fools of yore, The calf ourselves have fashion'd we adore. But let true Reason once resume her reign, This god shall dwindle to a calf again. Founded on arts which shun the face of day,