Lord Byron

Tom Tit, "Ode to Lord Byron, on reading his satirical Strictures on Modern Poets" Morning Post (20 September 1814).

Bard of the titled rank, and Turkish lyre!
Inexorable Critic! Judge severe!
Whose arrowy censures, like Jove's forky fire,
Wound and confound each little Muse with fear,
O'eraw'd by thee, terrific Scorner!
No gentle Sonneteer, with rhymes diurnal,
Shall venture now to deck the Poet's corner
Of Weekly Packet, Morning Post or Journal!
Those young Parnassian sparks
That lov'd to sing and soar,
Like other tuneful larks
In happy days of yore,
Scared by thy frowning Muse's blasting eye,
In silence now must mope, and dull obscurity!

Proud Father of the Corsair and the Giaour,
Childe Harold, and Abydos' Bride,
Prithee, restrain thy Ottomanic power,
Poor little British songsters to deride;
Lest, haply, some bold eagle, with fell aim,
Pounce on thee in thy turn, and wound thy new-fledg'd fame.
Sliere Gullion, Aug. 30, 1814.