To a Malignant Critic

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search


Rail at him, brave spirit! surround him with foes!
The wolf's at his door, and there's none to defend;
He's as "poor as a crow;" give him lustier blows,
And don't be alarmed, for he hasn't a friend.

Now twirl your red steel in the wound you have made,—
His wife lies a-dying, his children are dead;
He'll soon be alone, man, so don't be afraid,
But give him a thrust that will keep down his head.

He hasn't a sixpence to buy his wife's shroud,
He "writes for a living," so stab him again!
Raise a laugh, as he timidly shrinks from the crowd,
And hunt him like blood-hound, most valiant of men!

Ha! finished at last;—there he hangs; cut him down;
"A fine manly forehead! "I hear you exclaim;—
Now choose your next victim, to tickle the town,
And your heart-pointed pen shall reap plenty of fame!