To Sundry Maligners Poem by Martin Farquhar Tupper

Bravo, Detraction! libel worse and worse,--
Blessed is he whom you delight to curse;
Go on, go on,-- you serve my purpose so,--
The more you slander me, the more I grow;
Spit scorn, spout hate! I glory in your blame,
These dulcet whispers do but help good fame;
One envious foe stirs up a million friends,
A wasp attacks me, and a world defends!
Go on, Detraction! take a mile of rope,
You'll hitch the noose ere long, I more than hope;
And if meanwhile it please you, scorpion-like,
My naked foot with venom'd sting to strike,
Well,--dare it! and I'll crush you as you lie
Under my heel till in your lies you die!

Yes,--Arabs of the press, mean Zoilists,
Shake at me still your jealous little fists!
I can afford, like Palmerston, to keep
An Opposition, not to fall asleep
Smother'd with praise (which I may well wish less)
And almost overhumbled by success;
So, be my antidote to too much balm,
My teapot-tempest in my world of calm,
The capsicum to stimulate my meats,
The toss of bitter to correct my sweets,--
Be still, poor envious foes, my useful friends,
As battledores to serve your shuttle's ends!

From far-off lands indignant at your spleen,
Sometimes I hear how spiteful you have been;
That, months age, you whipp'd my volumes well,
(Joy to my publisher,-- you made them sell!)
That, months ago, you lash'd me, as you thought,
(Joy to myself! -- you hate me as you ought --)
But -- it was pity so to waste your rage;
For, quite unconscious of your gentle page,
In rustic innocence I had not known,
Till your scorn came, how famous I had grown,
And, blandly unaware of all your wrath,
Was trampling toads upon my daily path.

Ay, slanderous scribes! you shameless nameless men,
Who dare to prostitute the sacred pen
By stabbing characters, as boys stick flies,
Upon its cank'rous nib, gall'd black with lies,--
Contempt, contempt, is all I fling to you,--
Dogs of Detraction! bay me as you do:
Still, yield me snarling homage in your spite;
Bark, at your fiercest,-- no one fears your bite,--
Revile, or ridicule, traduce, or blame,
To me, my generous friends, it's all the same,--
Because, by good men's praises long made glad,

You
make me great by censures from the bad!