Enchantment bows to Wisdom’s serious plan,
And Pain and Prudence make and mar the man. 
   While thus, of power and fancied empire vain,
With various thoughts my mind I entertain;
While books, my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize,
Pleased with the pride that will not let them please,
Sudden I find terrific thoughts arise,
And sympathetic sorrow fills my eyes;
For, lo! while yet my heart admits the wound,
I see the critic army ranged around. 
   Foes to our race! if ever ye have known
A father’s fears for offspring of your own;
If ever, smiling o’er a lucky line,
Ye thought the sudden sentiment divine,
Then paused and doubted, and then, tired of doubt,
With rage as sudden dash’d the stanza out;-
If, after fearing much and pausing long,
Ye ventured on the world your labour’d song,
And from the crusty critics of those days
Implored the feeble tribute of their praise;
Remember now the fears that moved you then,
And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen. 
   What vent’rous race are ours! what mighty foes
Lie waiting all around them to oppose! 
What treacherous friends betray them to the fight! 
What dangers threaten them—­yet still they write: 
A hapless tribe! to every evil born,
Whom villains hate, and fools affect to scorn: 
Strangers they come, amid a world of woe,
And taste the largest portion ere they go. 
   Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around;
The roof, methought, return’d a solemn sound;
Each column seem’d to shake, and clouds, like smoke,
From dusty piles and ancient volumes broke;
Gathering above, like mists condensed they seem,
Exhaled in summer from the rushy stream;
Like flowing robes they now appear, and twine
Round the large members of a form divine;
His silver beard, that swept his aged breast,
His piercing eye, that inward light express’d,
Were seen,—­but clouds and darkness veil’d the rest. 
Fear chill’d my heart:  to one of mortal race,
How awful seem’d the Genius of the place! 
So in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw
His parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe;
Like him I stood, and wrapt in thought profound,
When from the pitying power broke forth a solemn sound:-
“Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts save
The wise from woe, no fortitude the brave;
Grief is to man as certain as the grave: 
Tempests and storms in life’s whole progress rise,
And hope shines dimly through o’erclouded skies. 
Some drops of comfort on the favour’d fall,
But showers of sorrow are the lot of all: 
Partial to talents, then, shall Heav’n withdraw
Th’ afflicting rod, or break the general law? 
Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views,
Life’s little cares and little pains refuse? 
Shall he not rather feel a double share
Of mortal woe, when doubly arm’d to bear? 
   “Hard is his fate who builds