A Reviewer Reviewed

The Nightingale and Cuckoo sang their best;
A Jackass was the judge. Long-ear addressed
Himself to listen, — said that Philomel,
Though somewhat wildly, warbled pretty well;
But, for a good plain song — in a single word,
Like what himself might sing — why, he preferred
The Cuckoo! — Such a common-sense-like bird!

II.

I sang my Song, which I had long rehearsed,
And asked, with heaving breast and throat athirst,
For drink from some good soul, that might be you,
Not craving nectar, nor ambrosial dew,
But quite content with Critical half-and-half.
And then your lattice opened with a laugh,
And I, expectant of some natural drops,
Received, like Socrates, your shrewish slops.

III.

You are disappointed with my work! Ah, true,
I was not meant, my Friend, to mirror you;
The only thing on earth you care to view!

IV.

Am I, too, such a miserable Elf!

Do let me look you in the face, my brother;

"lis only in the Mirror of each other
That we can see the littleness of self!

Below the surface my soul drew the breath
Ay hose bubbles only rose up for their death,
And you must sound the depths ere you can maik
The things that I have dived for in the dark.

'Tis hardly possible for pearls to swim
Like the light bubbles breaking at the brim!

VI.

Poor little Inkfish! you may strain and squirt
Your little life out in a little dirt.
Twould take a many million such to be
Seen as a little stain even in the sea!

VII.

O boy, the Apprentice-pen is sweet to touch
As that first clasp-knife we so proudly clutch;
Ere conscience wakes we live one glorious hour,
And cut and slash with cruel sense of power.
We wield the Scissors as 'twere Fate's own Shear-:
Sheer folly! as we learn in later years.

VIII.

Think of a Midge blaspheming at the beam
That makes him visible; Suns him in its gleam,
And gives him life for a moment to blaspheme!

IX.

You had no power to crown me with the bay:
You could not reach to snatch one leaf away;
But you may rob my little ones of bread,
Helping to damn the Book you have not read.
Be proud! that is no trivial thing to do!
Be safe! there is no law for Thieves like you.

The time will come when such as you and your
Co-mates, that try to slam some outer door
On me and mine, will turn and see and start
To find us folded safe in England's heart!

XI.

I was surprised and chafed, but in no rage
I pin my little Chafer to the page,
My Specimen saved and mounted on the brink
Of the vast black Oblivion of Ink!

XII.

You did your little best to prick and sting,
And Briardike about my feet you cling:
Is it that when I lift the waving wing
Toward heaven it may uplift the creeping thing
Near the warm heart of God's own brooding blue!
But heaven is only to be grown into
By upward living!

True, the very dust
May climb the Sunbeam — ride the wind; yet must
Fall back to Earth again, as dust to dust:
And where you are rooted you must rot! Adieu.
I prick you out, I shake you off; I scorn
To carry you with me, even a single thorn!
The place for Briars now, as in the past,
Is on the dead men's graves they clutch at last.