The Fastidious Goblin

THERE lived an imp of Endor,
Eternities gone by,
Who saw the Lord of splendor
Create his starry sky.

He saw the great suns stealing
From nothing and from night,
The worlds begin their wheeling,
The comets take their flight.

The mighty, mingled forces
Suffused creation’s frame;
Along the astral courses
Throbbed swiftness, heat, and flame.

The galaxies went singing
Adown their wondrous ways;
The universe was ringing
With gladness and with praise.

Then thought this pygmy goblin
He too would make a sphere,
And straight began his cobbling,
And wrought perchance a year.

But nothing could he fashion;
No world for him might be:
He lacked the godlike passion,
Creative love lacked he.

His work had neither motion,
Nor light, nor form, nor grace, —
A wreck on being’s ocean,
A blur on glory’s face.

So, seeing that no creature
Of his might track the skies,
He throned himself as teacher
And dared to criticise:

The meteors were crazy,
The systems far too vast;
The milky way was hazy,
The suns were overcast.

The plan was accidental,
The start foretold the close;
The tone was sentimental,
The scenes lacked Greek repose.

In nature all was lacking,
And lacking too in art;
A little wholesome hacking
Would better every part.

The motives should be fewer,
The aim more pure and high;
And any good reviewer
Could make a finer sky.

Or, if he praised, ’t was only
The dimmest of the host;
The grand orbs shining lonely
Were those he flouted most.

And ever since his mission
Has been to blame and sneer,
Consigning to perdition
The lights God holdeth dear:

The first, the greatest critic.
The model of his kind,
The goblin analytic
Who hates creative mind.