THE CRITIC

“Shall men agree?” the next man said,

“Each mind is shut within some head

( Pace the minds of all the dead )

With two eyes, seldom of a size,

And spectacles before the eyes.

Then, if men differ, what surprise?

“See the wight who wrapped in sadness

Grieves how soon this life is done,

And, disgusted with the madness

Of the way the world is run,

Scorns the hollowness of gladness

And the idiocy of fun:

Why, the spots upon the sun

Can be seen, when the ray passes

Blue eye-glasses.

“And what makes the moonlight shimmer

With the dancing of the sea

And the little stars cold glimmer

Twinkle with an inward glee

While this working-world grows dimmer

If my Mary looks with me?

Not the moon or stars or sea,

But the fickle cause, alas, is

Love's eye-glasses.

“Oh, how sad a world to cough in

Is a world once warm and fair,

And how many fallings off in

Old men's world of falling hair,

Till they think within the coffin

That there's no world anywhere.

For I fancy dead men wear

( Take your look now, lads and lasses! )

No eye-glasses.”

He stopped, and with a civil look

Said to his neighbour, “You come next,”

Who had been looking at a book

And seemed a trifle bored and vexed.

He laid the book down, stretched his legs

And yawned, and, emptying his glass,

Made a grimace as if the dregs

Were bitter, and replied, “I pass.”

When pressed, he shook his languid head

Until at last he hemmed and said: