A Critic

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.