Margaret Chalmers

The Author's Address to the Critics

Oh! do not break the Thulian lyre's rude strings;
Nor clip the Pegasean poney's wings.

MUCH honour'd Gentlemen,--Allow
Your suppliant a word or two
        In self defence;
Though, to the meed of learning, she
        Makes slight pretence.
Since Scandinavia rul'd our Isles,
We ne'er have woo'd the muses' smiles;
        Yet own their power
Oft wheels away, in rapid course,
        The wint'ry hour.
Now in the pure Castalian rill
Dips the first British Thulian quill
        To fame addrest;
In slumber lull'd, the poet's art
        Long lay supprest.
But now, forbid it tuneful powers,
That you should answer, "So might your's
        For all we see;"
Oh! meliorate your dread awards
        With lenity.
And think, that in our clime so chill,
The spark borne from the muses' hill,
        Fanning requires;
Then do not, with a rigid frown,
        Blow out its fires.
In quenching this my feeble gleam,
You may repress a brighter beam
        And loftier lay;
I rest content to Helicon
        To point the way.
If on my simple strains you smile,
Some poet from our northern Isle,
        In future day,
More skilfully may touch the lyre,
        And gain the bay.
Tho' to our clime and soil unkind,
Nature, no ****rd to the mind
        Of Thulian race,
Oft richly doth the mental field
        With flowers grace.
If wither'd by ungenial blight,
As they unfold their leaves to light,
        Lo, soon they close;
And on oblivion's tranquil lap
        Again repose.