Yet once again, adieu! ere this the sail That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale; And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height, [158] And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight: 1020 Thence shall I stray through Beauty's native clime, [159] Where Kaff [160] is clad in rocks, and crowned with snows sublime. But should I back return, no tempting press [lxxix] Shall drag my Journal from the desk's recess; Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far, Snatch his own wreath of Ridicule from Carr; Let ABERDEEN and ELGIN [161] still pursue The shade of fame through regions of Virtù; Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, Misshapen monuments and maimed antiques; 1030 And make their grand saloons a general mart For all the mutilated blocks of art: Of Dardan tours let Dilettanti tell, I leave topography to rapid [162] GELL; [163] And, quite content, no more shall interpose To stun the public ear--at least with Prose. [lxxx] Thus far I've held my undisturbed career, Prepared for rancour, steeled 'gainst selfish fear; This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdained to own-- Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown: 1040 My voice was heard again, though not so loud, My page, though nameless, never disavowed; And now at once I tear the veil away:-- Cheer on the pack! the Quarry stands at bay, Unscared by all the din of MELBOURNE house, [164] By LAMB'S resentment, or by HOLLAND'S spouse, By JEFFREY'S harmless pistol, HALLAM'S rage, Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, And feel they too are "penetrable stuff:" 1050 And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall From lips that now may seem imbued with gall; Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise The meanest thing that crawled beneath my eyes: But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, I've learned to think, and sternly speak the truth; Learned to deride the critic's starch decree, And break him on the wheel he meant for me; 1060 To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss: Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, I too can hunt a Poetaster down; And, armed in proof, the gauntlet cast at once To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce. Thus much I've dared; if my incondite lay [lxxx] Hath wronged these righteous times, let others say: This, let the world, which knows not how to spare, Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. [165] 1070