To A Critic

Song hath a catalogue of lovely things
  Thy kind hath oft defiled,--whose spite misleads
  The world too often!--where the poet reads,
  As in a fable, of old envyings,
  Crows, such as thou, which hush the bird that sings,
  Or kill it with their cawings; thorns and weeds,
  Such as thyself, 'midst which the wind sows seeds
  Of flow'rs, these crush before one blossom swings.
  But here and there the wisdom of a School
  Unknown to these hath often written down
  "Fame" in white ink the future hath turned brown;
  When every beauty, heaped with ridicule,
  In their ignoble prose, proved their renown,
  Making each famous--as an ass or fool.