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.