To Julia. In Allusion To Some Illiberal Criticisms.

Why, let the stingless critic chide     With all that fume of vacant pride     Which mantles o'er the pendant fool,     Like vapor on a stagnant pool.     Oh! if the song, to feeling true,     Can please the elect, the sacred few,     Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,     Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought--     If some fond feeling maid like thee,     The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,     Shall say, while o'er my simple theme     She languishes in Passion's dream,     "He was, indeed, a tender soul--      No critic law, no chill control,      Should ever freeze, by timid art,      The flowings of so fond a heart!"     Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love!     That, hovering like a snow-winged dove,     Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild,     And hailed me Passion's warmest child,--     Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,     From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;     Oh! let my song, my memory find,     A shrine within the tender mind!     And I will smile when critics chide,     And I will scorn the fume of pride     Which mantles o'er the pendant fool,     Like vapor round some stagnant pool!