Lines to a Critic
[Page 187]
Truly I cannot boast of such eclat
As could my friend, whose sword, this way and that,
Brandish’d through Islington and Highgate thorps,—
For he belongs unto the Light Horse Corps!
Next morn I had a great mind to indict
The bludgeoneers, but could not well convict;
And fain was I to take their promises
Of good behaviour touching many bruises.
But if again they catch me in that region,
(Well-named Ire-land) since I am not a lion,
The world may call me fool, and I’ll say—“yes,”
For I don’t like bones batter’d and black eyes.
No! rather would I to Constantinople,
Although the Turk’s-men are a strange people,
And I’ve no predilection for the plague,
Than drink in a continued fearful ague.
_________
_________
HONEY from silkworms who can gather,
Or silk from the yellow bee?
The grass may grow in winter weather,
As soon as hate in me.
than it is worth already. The writers must lay it to the account of our infir-
mity, and to a lurking something of orthodoxy in us. But in these “Lines
to a Critic,” the Reverend Calumniator, or Calumniators,(3) will see what sort
of an answer Mr. Shelley would have given them; for the beautiful effusion
is his. Let the reader, when he has finished them, say which is the better
Christian,—the “religious” reviver of bitter and repeated calumnies upon
one who differs with him in opinion, or the “profane” philanthropist who can
answer in such a spirit?
[Page 188]
[Page 188]
Hate men who cant, and men who pray,
And men who rail like thee;
An equal passion to repay,—
They are not coy like me.
Or seek some slave of power and gold,
To be thy dear heart’s-mate,
Thy love will move that bigot cold,
Sooner than me, thy hate.
A passion like the one I prove
Cannot divided be;
I hate thy want of truth and love,
How should I then hate thee?
________
THE MONARCHS,
AN ODE FOR CONGRESS.
WHEN Congress (heav’nly maid!) was young,
While scarcely yet Rossini sung,
The Monarchs oft, to flesh the sword,
Throng’d around the festive board;
Exulting, carving, hobbing, nobbing,
Possess’d of what they’d all been robbing.
By turns they felt each other’s crown,
Disturb’d, delighted, rais’d, pull’d down;
Till once, ’tis said, when all were maudlin,
Fill’d with Rhenish, flouncing, twaddling,
From the supporting statesmen round
They snatch’d the first pens that they found,
And as they once had learnt apart
Sweet lessons of the pot-hook art,
EDITORIAL NOTES
[1] This short 1817 poem is the only contribution by Percy Bysshe Shelley in this issue of The Liberal.
[2] Probably the Tory journal The Courier (1792-1842). See n. 706 above. Hunt is referring to his answer to criticism in the Preface to the first issue of The Liberal, second edition.
[3] Possible reference to William Mudford (1782-1848). See n. 706 above.
Ultimo aggiornamento
22.09.2025