"Through Nature's new-found gift, Magnetic skill, My soul obeys an influential Will, And I from Hades rise to life again To wield once more mine own especial pen, Which none have rivalled in these sickly days Of tawdry epics and translated plays, When knavish cliques o'er honest Art prevail, And weigh out judgment by the 'Savile' scale. The petty vices of the time demand Another scourging from my fearless hand; Still are there flocks of geese for me to chase, Still false pretenders to the 'poet's' place. Who dare to pile detraction on my name, Let such beware, for scribblers are my game! Speed Pegasus! Ye modern pensters small, WATTS, BRYDGES, MORRIS, ARNOLD, have at you all! Remember well how once upon a time I poured along the town a flood of rhyme So strong and scathing that the little fry Of rhymesters like yourselves were doomed to die! Moved by that triumph past, I still pursue The self-same road, despite the _New Review_ And _Quarterly_, and other journals silly, That take dull articles by Mr. LILLY. "Most men serve out their time to every trade Save book-reviewers--these are ready-made. Crib jokes from Yankee journals, got by rote, With just enough of memory to misquote; Ignore all beauty; find or forge a fault; Revive old puns and call them 'attic salt'; Then to the '_Speaker_' or to HENLEY go (The 'pay' for book-reviews is always low); Fear not to lie--'twill seem a ready hit; Shrink not from blasphemy--'twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling; launch a scurrilous jest, And be a critic with the very best! "Will any own such judgment? No, as soon Trust wavering shadows 'neath th' inconstant moon, Hope that a 'promised' critique will be done By bland O'Connor of the _Sunday Sun_, Believe that Hodge's claims will ne'er increase, Believe in GLADSTONE'S schemes for Ireland's peace, Or any other thing that's false, before You trust reviewers, who themselves are sore. Never let thought or fancy be misled By LANG'S cold heart or ALFRED AUSTIN'S head; While such are censors, 'twould be sin to spare; While such are critics, why should I forbear? And yet so near these modern writers run 'Tis doubtful whom to seek and whom to shun, Nor know we when to spare or where to strike, The bards and critics are so much alike!