A Criticism Of Critics

How often have the critics, trained
    To look upon the sky
Through telescopes securely chained,
    Forgot the naked eye.

Within the compass of their glass
    Each smallest star they knew,
And not a meteor could pass
    But they were looking through.

When a new planet shed its rays
    Beyond their field of vision,
And simple folk ran out to gaze,
    They laughed in high derision.

They railed upon the senseless throng
    Who cheered the brave new light.
And yet the learned men were wrong,
    The simple folk were right.

Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray was a Scottish poet known for his lyrical and expressive poetry. Born on December 26, 1863, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, he moved to Scotland at a young age. Despite a short life, ending on April 15, 1894, Murray left a significant mark with his works, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry is characterized by its elegance and depth of feeling. Murray's influence remained through posthumous publications and collections of his poetry.

Robert Fuller Murray

A Lover's Confession

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The Waster Singing At Midnight. After Longfellow.

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

To Alfred Tennyson--1883

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Thirty Years After

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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A Coincidence

Every critic in the town
Runs the minor poet down;
Every critic--don't you know it?
Is himself a minor poet.

Robert Fuller Murray

To The Reader Of 'University Notes'

Ah yes, we know what you're saying,
    As your eye glances over these Notes:
'What asses are these that are braying
    With flat and unmusical throats?
Who writes such unspeakable patter?
    Is it lunatics, idiots--or who?'
And you think there is 'something the matter.'
    Well, we think so too.

We have sat, full of sickness and sorrow,
    As the hours dragged heavily on,
Till the midnight has merged into morrow,
    And the darkness is going or gone.
We are Editors.    Give us the credit
    Of meaning to do what we could;
But, since there is nothing to edit,
    It isn't much good.

Once we shared the delightful delusion
    That to edit was racy and rare,
But we suffered a sad disillusion,
    And we found that our castles wer...

Robert Fuller Murray

Star-Gazers

What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by;
A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:
Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of little boat,
Some little pleasure-skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.

The Showman chooses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy Square;
And is as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;
Calm, though impatient, is the crowd; each stands ready with the fee,
And envies him that's looking; what an insight must it be!

Yet, Showman, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement haveblame,
A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame?
Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?
Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is yon resplendent vault?

Is nothing of that radiant p...

William Wordsworth

An Orator's Complaint

How many the troubles that wait
    On mortals!--especially those
    Who endeavour in eloquent prose
To expound their views, and orate.

Did you ever attempt to speak
    When you hadn't a word to say?
    Did you find that it wouldn't pay,
And subside, feeling dreadfully weak?

Did you ever, when going ahead
    In a fervid defence of the Stage,
    Get checked in your noble rage
By somehow losing your thread?

Did you ever rise to reply
    To a toast (say 'The Volunteers'),
    And evoke loud laughter and cheers,
When you didn't exactly know why?

Did you ever wax witty, and when
    You had smashed an opponent quite small,
    Did he seem not to mind it at all,
But get up and smash you again?

If any or all of ...

Robert Fuller Murray

Lines To A Pedantic Critic

Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee,
Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be:
Now, cold correctness! I despise the name;
Is that a passport through the gates of fame?
Thy pedant rules with care I studied once;
Was I made wiser, or a greater dunce?
Hence, Critic, hence! I'll study them no more;
My eyes are open'd, and the folly's o'er.
When Genius opes the floodgates of the soul,
Fancy's outbursting tides impetuous roll,
Onward they rush with unresisted sway,
Sweeping fools, pedants, critics, all away
Who would with obstacles their progress stay.
As mighty Ocean bids his waves comply
With the great luminaries of the sky,
So Genius, to direct his course aright,
Owns but one guide, the inspiring God of light.

Thomas Oldham

The Star-Splitter

You know Orien always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
After the ground is frozen, I should have done
Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
To make fun of my way of doing things,
Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.
Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights
These forces are obliged to pay respect to?"
So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk
Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming,
Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And spent the proceeds on a telescope
To satisfy a life-long...

Robert Lee Frost