Sonnet XXII

You, whose dull spirits feel not the fine glow

Enthusiasm breathes, no more of light

Perceive ye in rapt Poesy, tho' bright

In Fancy's richest colouring, than can flow

From jewel'd treasures in the central night

Of their deep caves.—You have no Sun to show

Their inborn radiance pure.—Go, Snarlers, go;

Nor your defects of feeling, and of sight,

To charge upon the Poet thus presume,

Ye lightless minds, whate'er of title proud,

Scholar, or Sage, or Critic, ye assume,

Arraigning his high claims with censure loud,

Or sickly scorn; yours, yours is all the cloud,

Gems cannot sparkle in the midnight Gloom.