As that expiring, still its course repairs Through endless ages, and unceasing years. Where parted souls with kindred spirits meet, Wrapt to the bloom of beauty all complete; In that celestial, vast, unclouded sphere, Nought there exists but has its image here! All there is Mind!--That Intellectual Flame, From whose vast stores all human genius came, In which all Nature forms on Reason's plan-- Flows to this abject world, and beams on Man! [321] This was published in the _Freeman's Journal_, Oct 4, 1786, under the title "On the Honourable Emanuel Swedenborg's Universal Theology." A column advertisement of the book appeared in the _Journal_ Oct. 25. The poem was reprinted in the 1788 collection and in the later edition of 1809, which the text follows. TO ZOILUS[322] [A Severe Critic] Six sheets compos'd, struck off, and dry The work may please the world (thought I)-- If some impell'd by spleen or spite, Refuse to read, then let them write: I too, with them, shall have my turn, And give advice--to tear or burn. Now from the binder's, hurried home, In neat array my leaves are come: Alas, alas! is this my all? The volume is so light and small, That, aim to save it as I can, 'Twill fly before Myrtilla's fan. Why did I no precautions use? To curb these frolics of the Muse? Ah! why did I invoke the nine To aid these humble toils of mine-- That now forebode through every page The witling's sneer, the critic's rage. Did I, for this, so often rise Before the sun illum'd the skies, And near my Hudson's mountain stream Invoke the Muses' morning dream, And scorn the winds that blew so cool! I did--and I was more the fool. Yet slender tho' the book, and small, And harmless, take it all in all, I see a monstrous wight appear, A quill suspended from his ear; Its fate depends on his decree, And what he says must sacred be! A brute of such terrific mien At wild Sanduski ne'er was seen, And in the dark Kentuckey groves No beast, like this, for plunder roves, Nor dwells in Britain's lowering clime A reptile, so severe on rhyme. The monster comes, severe and slow, His eyes with arrowy lightnings glow, Takes up the book, surveys it o'er, Exclaims, "damn'd stuff!"--but says no more: The book is damn'd by his decree, And what he says must gospel be! But was there nothing to his taste?-- Was all my work a barren waste-- Was not one bright idea sown, And not one image of my own?-- Its doom was just, if this be true: But Zoilus shall be sweated too. Give me a cane of mighty length, A staff proportion'd to my strength, Like that, by whose destructive aid The man of Gath his conquests made; Like that, which once on Etna's shore The shepherd of the mountain bore: