Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee,
Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be:
Now, cold correctness!--I despise the name;
Is that a passport through the gates of fame?
Thy pedant rules with care I studied once;
Was I made wiser, or a greater dunce?
Hence, Critic, hence! I'll study them no more;
My eyes are open'd, and the folly's o'er.
When Genius opes the floodgates of the soul,
Fancy's outbursting tides impetuous roll,
Onward they rush with unresisted sway, }
Sweeping fools, pedants, critics, all away }
Who would with obstacles their progress stay. }
As mighty Ocean bids his waves comply
With the great luminaries of the sky,
So Genius, to direct his course aright,
Owns but one guide, the inspiring God of light.