Critic and Snow-drop Thomas Paine Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Cleary, Scott M., ed. Claeys, Gregory, gen. ed. Thomas Paine Collected Writings. Vol. II. Part 2: Poetry. Princeton Princeton UP 2026 pp. []-[]. 5 Volumes.

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Critic and Snow-drop
To the Publisher of the Pennsylvania Magazine Sir ,

I have given your very modest snow-drop what ( I think ) Shakespeare calls “ a local habitation and a name ” ; that is , I have made a poet of him , and have sent him to take possession of a page in your next magazine . Here he comes , disputing with a critic about the propriety of a prologue .

Enter critic and Snow-drop . 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 .