ON TWO PUBLICATIONS, ENTITLED EDITIONS OF TWO OF OUR POETS.

When Critic Science first was known, Somewhere upon the Muse’s ground The pruning knife of wit was thrown; Not that which Aristarchus found: That had a stout and longer blade, Would at one stroke cut off a limb; This knife was delicately made, Not to dismember, but to trim. With a short harmless edge a-top, ’Twas made like our prize-fighting swords; Pages and Chapters ’twould not lop, But cut off syllables and words. Well did it wear; and might have worn Full many an age, yet ne’er the worse; Till Bentley’s hand its edge did turn On Milton’s adamantine verse. Warburton seized the blunted tool, Scarce fit for Oyster-opening Drab: For Critic use ’twas now too dull, But tho’ it would not cut, ’twould stab; Then Shakspeare bled, with every friend That loved the Bard:—he threaten’d further; And God knows what had been the end, Had not Tom Edwards cried out “Murther!” Confounded at the fearful word, Awhile he hid the felon steel; Now gives it Mason, lends it H—; Ah! see what Gray and Cowley feel!