Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/470

428 Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend,

Despises all advice too much to mend,

But ever twangs the same discordant string,

Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing.

Let Havard's fate o'ertake him, who, for once,

Produced a play too dashing for a dunce:

At first none deemed it his; but when his name

Announced the fact—what then?—it lost its fame.

Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze,

In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose.

As Pictures, so shall Poems be; some stand

The critic eye, and please when near at hand;

But others at a distance strike the sight;

This seeks the shade, but that demands the light,

Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view,

But, ten times scrutinised, is ten tmies new.

Parnassian pilgrims! ye whom chance, or choice,

Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice,

Receive this counsel, and be timely wise;

Few reach the Summit which before you lies.