TO JULIA.

Why, let the stingless critic chide

With all that fume of vacant pride

Which mantles o'er the pendant fool,

Like vapor on a stagnant pool.

Oh! if the song, to feeling true,

Can please the elect, the sacred few,

Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,

Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought —

If some fond feeling maid like thee,

The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,

Shall say, while o'er my simple theme

She languishes in Passion's dream,

“He was, indeed, a tender soul —

No critic law, no chill control,

Should ever freeze, by timid art,

The flowings of so fond a heart!”

Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love!

That, hovering like a snow-winged dove,

Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild,

And hailed me Passion's warmest child,—

Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,

From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;

Oh! let my song, my memory find,

A shrine within the tender mind!

And I will smile when critics chide,

And I will scorn the fume of pride

Which mantles o'er the pendant fool,

Like vapor round some stagnant pool!