And should you with a critic's eye
Proclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner,
Reflect, dear girl I that such as I,
Six times a-week don't get a dinner.
And want of comfort, food, and wine,
Will damp the genius, curb the spirit:
These wants I'll own are often mine;--But
can't allow a want of merit.
For every stupid dog that drinks
At poet's pond, nicknamed divine;
Say what he will, I know he thinks
That all he writes is wondrous fine!
THE STEAM-BOAT.
Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brine
_Stalk'st_ proudly--heeding not what wind may blow,
What chart, what compass, shapes that course of thine,
Whence didst thou come, and whither dost thou go?
Art thou a Monster born of sky and sea?
Art thou a Pagod moving in thine ire?
Were I a Savage I must bend to thee,
A Ghiber? I must own thee "God of fire."
The affrighted billows fly thy hissing rout,
Thy wake is followed by turmoil and din,
Blackness and darkness track thy course without,
And fire and groans and vapours strive within.
And they who cling about thee--who are they?
And canst thou be that fabled boat, that waits
On the dark banks of Styx for souls? Oh, say!
Let me not burst in ignorance--thy freight.
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