Poem by Alexander Smith

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There have been vast displays of critic wit
O'er those who vainly flutter feeble wings,
Nor rise an inch 'bove ground,--weak Poetlings!
And on them to the death men's brows are knit.
Ye men! ye critics! seems 't so very fit
They on a storm of laughter should be blown
O'er the world's edge to Limbo? Be it known,
Ye men! ye critics! that beneath the sun
The chiefest woe is this,--When all alone,
And strong as life, a soul's great currents run
Poesy-ward, like rivers to the sea,
But never reach 't. Critic, let that soul moan
In its own hell without a kick from thee.
Kind Death, kiss gently, ease this weary one!

1. Joy Like a Stream Flows Through the Christmas-Streets
2. Beauty Still Walketh on the Earth and Air
3. I Wrote a Name upon the River Sands
4. I Cannot Deem Why Men Toil So for Fame
5. Last Night My Cheek Was Wetted with Warm Tears

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