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Best repaid all the toil you expended upon it;
It should reach with one impulse the end of its

course, And for one final blow collect all of its force ; Not a verse should be salient, but each one should

tend With a wave-like up-gathering to burst at the

end ;

So, condensing the strength here, there smoothing

a wry kink, He was killing the time, when up walked Mr. - ; At a few steps behind him, a small man in glasses, Went dodging about, muttering“ murderers !

asses !” From out of his pocket a paper he'd take, With the proud look of martyrdoms tied to its

stake, And, reading a squib at himself, he'd say, “ Here I


'Gainst American letters a bloody conspiracy,
They are all by my personal enemies written;
I must post an anonymous letter to Britain,
And show that this gall is the merest suggestion
Of spite at my zeal on the Copyright question,
For, on this side the water, 'tis prudent to pull
O’er the eyes of the public their national wool,
By accusing of slavish respect to John Bull

All American authors who have more or less
Of that anti-American humbug-success,
While in private we're always embracing the

knees Of some twopenny editor over the seas, And licking his critical shoes, for you know ’tis The whole aim of our lives to get one English

notice; My American puffs I would willingly burn all,

(They're all from one source, monthly, weekly,

diurnal) To get but a kick from a transmarine journal ! ”

So, culling the gibes of each critical scorner As if they were plums, and himself were Jack

Horner, He came cautiously on, peeping round every

corner, And into each hole where a weasel might pass in, Expecting the knife of some critic assassin, Who stabs to the heart with a caricature, Not so bad as those daubs of the Sun, to be sure, Yet done with a dagger-o'-type, whose vile por

traits Disperse all one's good, and condense all one's poor


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Apollo looked up, hearing footsteps approach

ing, And slipped out of sight the new rhymes he was

broaching,6. Good day, Mr. I'm happy to meet, With a scholar so ripe, and a critic so neat, Who through Grub-street the soul of a gentleman

carries, What news from that suburb of London and Paris Which latterly makes such shrill claims to monopo

lize The credit of being the New World's metropo

lis ?

Why, nothing of consequence, save this attack On my friend there, behind, by some pitiful hack, Who thinks every national author a poor one, That isn't a copy of something that's foreign, And assaults the American Dick"

Nay, 'tis clear That your

Damon there's fond of a flea in his ear, And, if no one else furnished them gratis, on tick He would buy some himself, just to hear the old

click; Why, I honestly think, if some fool in Japan Should turn up his nose at the · Poems on Man,' Your friend there by some inward instinct would

know it, Would get it translated, reprinted, and show it; As a man might take off a high stock to exhibit The autograph round his own neck of the gibbet; Nor would let it rest so, but fire column after

column, Signed Cato, or Brutus, or something as solemn, By way of displaying his critical crosses, And tweaking that poor transatlantic proboscis, His broadsides resulting (and this there's no doubt

of) In successively sinking the craft they're fired out

of. Now nobody knows when an author is hit, If he don't have a public hysterical fit ; Let him only keep close in his snug garret's dim

ether, And nobody'd think of his critics—or him either; If an author have any least fibre of worth in him, Abuse would but tickle the organ of mirth in him, All the critics on earth cannot crush with their

ban, One word that's in tune with the nature of man."

“ Well, perhaps so; meanwhile I have brought

you a book, Into which if you'll just have the goodness to look, You may feel so delighted, (when you have got

through it)

As to think it not unworth your while to review it, And I think I can promise your thoughts, if you

do, A place in the next Democratic Review.” “ The most thankless of gods you must surely

have thought me, For this is the forty-fourth copy you've brought me, I have given them away, or at least I have tried, But I've forty-two left, standing all side by side, (The man who accepted that one copy, died,)From one end of a shelf to the other they reach, • With the author's respects' neatly written in

each. The publisher, sure, will proclaim a Te Deum, When he hears of that order the British Museum Has sent for one set of what books were first

printed In America, little or big,—for ’tis hinted That this is the first truly tangible hope he Has ever had raised for the sale of a copy. I've thought very often 'twould be a good thing In all public collections of books, if a wing Were set off by itself, like the seas from the dry

lands, Marked Literature suited to desolate islands, And filled with such books as could never be read Save by readers of proofs, forced to do it for

bread, Such books as one's wrecked on in small country

taverns, Such as hermits might mortify over in caverns, Such as Satan, if printing had then been invented, As the climax of woe, would to Job have pre

sented, Such as Crusoe might dip in, although there are Outrageously cornered by fate as poor Crusoe; And since the philanthropists just now are bang

few so

ing And gibbeting all who're in favor of hanging, (Though Cheever has proved that the Bible and

Altar Were let down from Heaven at the end of a halter, And that vital religion would dull and grow

callous, Unrefreshed, now and then, with a sniff of the

gallows,) And folks are beginning to think it looks odd, To choke a poor scamp for the glory of God; And that He who esteems the Virginia reel A bait to draw saints from their spiritual weal, And regards the quadrille as a far greater knavery Than crushing His African children with slavery, Since all who take part in a waltz or cotillion Are mounted for hell on the Devil's own pillion, Who, as every true orthodox Christian well knows, Approaches the heart through the door of the

toes, That He, I was saying, whose judgments are stored For such as take steps in despite of his word, Should look with delight on the agonized prancing Of a wretch who has not the least ground for his

dancing, While the State, standing by, sings a verse from

the Psalter About offering to God on his favorite halter, And, when the legs droop from their twitching

divergence, Sells the clothes to a Jew, and the corpse to the

surgeons ; Now, instead of all this, I think I can direct you


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