Critic and Snow-drop

To the Publisher of the Pennsylvania Magazine

Critic.

Prologues to magazines! the man is mad
No magazine a prologue ever had.
But let us hear what new and mighty things
Your wonder-working magic fancy brings.

Snow-drop.

Bit by the muse in an unlucky hour,
I’ve left myself at home, and turn’d a flow’r;
And thus disguis’d come forth to tell my tale,
A plain white snow drop gathered from the vale,
I come to sing that summer is at hand,
The summer time of wit, you’ll understand:
And that this garden of our magazine
Will soon exhibit such a pleasing scene,
That even critics shall admire the show
If their good grace will give us time to grow.
Beneath the surface of the parent earth,
We’ve various seeds just struggling into birth,
Plants, fruits, and flow’rs, and all the smiling race,
That can the orchard or the garden grace,
Our numbers, Sir, so vast and endless are,
That when in full complexion we appear,
Each eye, each hand, shall pluck what suits its taste,
And every palate shall enjoy a feast.
The rose and lily shall address the fair,
And whisper sweetly out — My dears take care.
With sterling worth the plant of sense shall rise
And teach the curious to philosophize;
The keen-ey’d wit shall claim the scented briar,
And sober cits the solid grain admire;
While gen’rous juices sparkling from the vine
Shall warm the audience, until they cry — Divine:
And when the scenes of one gay month are o’er,
Shall clap their hands, and shout — Encore, encore.

Critic.

All this is mighty fine! But prithee when
The frost returns, how fight ye then your men?

Snow-drop.

I’ll tell you, Sir.  — We’ll garnish out the scenes
With stately rows of hardy ever-greens,
Trees that will bear the frost; and deck their tops
With everlasting flow’rs, like diamond drops.
We’ll draw, and paint, and carve, with so much skill,
That wondering wits shall cry — Diviner still!

Critic.

Better and better yet! But now, suppose
Some critic wight in mighty verse or prose,
Should draw his grey goose weapon, dipt in gall.
And mow ye down, plants, flow’rs, trees, and all.

Snow-drop.

Why, then we’ll die like flowers of sweet perfume,
And yield a fragrance even in the tomb.