A Critic
[Apparently the Cleveland Leader is not a good judge of poetry.—The Morning Call.]
That from you, neighbor! to whose vacant lot
Each rhyming literary knacker scourges
His cart-compelling Pegasus to trot,
As folly, fame or famine smartly urges?
Admonished by the stimulating goad,
How gaily, lo! the spavined crow-bait prances—
Its cart before it—eager to unload
The dead-dog sentiments and swill-tub fancies.
Gravely the sweating scavenger pulls out
The tail-board of his curst imagination,
Shoots all his rascal rubbish, and, no doubt,
Thanks Fortune for so good a dumping-station.
To improve your property, the vile cascade
Your thrift invites—to make a higher level.
In vain: with tons of garbage overlaid,
Your baseless bog sinks slowly to the devil.
“Rubbish may be shot here”—familiar sign!
I seem to see it in your every column.
You have your wishes, but if I had mine
’Twould to your editor mean something solemn.