Yet was he only one of them that slew: The fiend had taken a deadly wound from Bayle; And did he 'roar to see his kingdom fail' 'Neath Robespierre, or raise his head anew? Nay, Voltaire's teaching never cured the heart: The lack of human feeling blots his art. When most his phrase with indignation burns, Still to the gallery his face he turns. B. You bear him hard. Men are of common stuff, Each hath some fault, and he had faults enough: But of all slanderers that ever were A virtuous critic is the most unfair. In greatness ever is some good to see; And what is character, unless it be The colour of persistent qualities, That, like a ground in painting, balances All hues and forms, combining with one tone Whatever lights or shades are on it thrown? Now Voltaire had of Nature a rich ground, Two virtues rarely in conjunction found: Industry, which no pedant could excel, He matched with gaiety inexhaustible; And with heroic courage held these fast, As sailors nail their colours to the mast, With ruling excellence atoning all. Though, for the rest, he still for praise may call; Prudent to gain, as generous to share _Le superflu, chose si nécessaire_; To most a rare companion above scorn, To not a few a kind, devoted friend Through his long battling life, which in the end He strove with good works richly to adorn. I have admired, and why should I abuse A man who can so long and well amuse? A. To some Parisian art there's this objection, 'Tis mediocrity pushed to perfection. B. 'Judge not,' say I, 'and ye shall not be judged!' A. Let me say, 'praise men, if ye would be praised:' Let your unwholesome flattery flow ungrudged, And with ungrudging measure shall men pour Their stifling homage back till ye be crazed, And sane men humour you as fools past cure. But these wise maxims deal not with the dead, 'Tis by example that the young are led, And judgement owes its kindness but to them; Nor will I praise, call you me hard or nice, One that degraded art, and varnished vice. They that praise ill thereby themselves condemn. B. Béranger could not praise. A. Few are who can; Not he: if ever he assay'd to impart A title loftier than his own renown, Native irreverence defied his art, His fingers soil'd the lustre of his crown. Here he adored what he was envious of, The vogue and dazzling fashion of the man. But man's true praise, the poet's praise, is love. B. And that, perhaps, was hardly his affair.... Pray, now, what set you talking of Voltaire? A.