For me I never sought to scale the steep,
The path seem'd rugged, and the summit hazy;
Although I lov'd in sunny skies to peep,

To climb, I knew I was too lame and lazy :
Enough for me, around the base to creep,

And, careless, pluck a primrose or a daisy; Delighted, listening to the bubbling fountain,

I never envied those who, scrambling, scal'd the mountain.

There are who boast about the Muse's charms,
And talk with transport of the sacred Nine;
Although their presence sometimes fancy warms,
I cannot say their visits are divine;

They never hugg'd me in their heav'nly arms,

I frankly own, such raptures ne'er were mine! A passing nod, to me, was great attention;

A smile, and "How d' ye do?" most wondrous condescension.

But these would serve to lighten earthly care;

The landscape smil'd, all Nature seem'd to please,
The blushing wild-rose bloom'd with tints more fair,
And sweeter fragrance floated on the breeze;
More soft the sky-lark caroll'd in the air,

With richier verdure wav'd the branching trees;
'Twas musical to hear the tempest sweep,
As, seated on a rock, I view'd the troubled deep.

I gaz'd upon the bright cloud's golden dye,
Rich with the splendors of the setting sun;
And, lingering, hail'd the purple twilight sky,
A gilded border on night's mantle dun.
Then mark'd the silver moon ascending high,
In boundless space her nightly course to run,
Till vagrant Fancy wing'd her flight afar,
To empyrean fields, beyond the utmost star.
Dear is Imagination's airy dream,

Although too oft, we disappointed, find
It transient, as the Ignis-Fatuus' gleam,

That mocks the eye, and leaves no trace behind:
But yet it sometimes shines a sun-bright beam,
And sheds a pleasing halo o'er the mind;
So sweet the visions floating in its train,
We muse upon the past, and wish to dream again.

Be patient, reader-do not look so gruff,

Your sulky scowl has marr'd my meditation; That heart-appalling cry, "Enough!-enough!" Has thrown my very pen in perturbation. Perhaps you deem it sad romantic stuff;

But know, you've lost a splendid lucubration; For when you frown'd, I was about to soar

But, ah! the vision's fled, and will return no more!

"It was a dream," you cry; what else is life?
A day-dream, building castles in the air;
The sire, the son, maid, widow, husband, wife,
The king, the clown, alike the pleasure share:
Till cruel Fate, with unrelenting strife,

Her arm extends, to crush the fabric fair:
Just when the Babel tower assails the sky,
We see the hope of years a mass of ruins lie!

Love's like an ague fit, that comes and goes,

Its victims sweat and shiver, freeze and roast;
And Beauty's like the frost-work morning shows,
That vanishes when we admire it most:
Ambition sternly spurns at human woes;

Gold chills the heart with more than Greenland frost;
'Tis Friendship only burns with lasting fire,
Sports with us on the green, nor leaves us in the mire.

But this is thrumming o'er a hackney'd strain ;
Dry moralizing, often said and sung;
Divines may preach, and poets sing in vain,
The old are deaf, incredulous the young:
Perhaps, a tale may shew the subject plain,

Truth may have charms, pour'd from a Tailor's tongue;
For such my hero-not a man of straw;

The proverb says, that precepts lead-examples draw.

What Scotian tourist has not seen Dundee ?

And who that knows it has not trod the Vault *?
In days of yore, a mart of high degree,

For porter, beer, tobacco, meal, and salt:
There Bacchus holds his blithest jubilee,

In brisk potations from inspiring malt;
None better ever cross'd a toper's throat,

For in Dundee you may get drunk e'en for a groat.

The Muse could linger, with a fond delight,
Upon the potent, dear, delicious liquor;
For, trust me, it was rapture to the sight,

To see it mantling, in the clean hoop'd bicker:
Just now, a draught would cheer me as I write,
Make teeming Fancy tell her tale the quicker:
Whoe'er has doubts, or questions my veracity,
Let him step o'er and taste-he'll pardon this loquacity.

Well, in the Vault, snug in an upper story,

(The third, or fourth, it matters nothing which,)
A Tailor liv'd, his name was Edward Norie,

Good trade, and prudent wife, had made him rich:
Chief in his craft, he shone supreme in glory,

The neatest cutter, and the surest stitch:

Set on his board, with coats and cabbage round him,
He felt his soul expand; for stern Ambition found him.

He pondered long, in deep and sage reflection;
At last, in mental monologue, he said,

"Six weeks bring Michaelmas, and our election-
Why should not I be Deacon to the trade,
And climb the ladder, till I reach perfection?
Yes, yes! I have it now all in my head!—
Convener-Bailie-then, to crown my glory,
I yet may live to hear-a health to Provost Norie!"

What oars were plied-what stratagems employed-
Securing votes-known by the name of forking!
What hams and haddocks weekly were destroy'd!

What jokes were crack'd when bottles were uncorking!

A court, or irregular square, near the High Street, in which are many shops and

taverns.

What raptur'd dreams the soi-disant enjoy'd,
On finding his complex machinery working!
We may not stop-nor have we rhymes to say;

Suppose these preludes past, and come the important day.

Ned's spouse, complacent, comb'd and curl'd his wig, (Wigs were in fashion fourscore years ago,)

And set herself the Tailor's form to rig,

In such a style as made him quite a beau: London's Lord Mayor never look'd so big; Within his heart he felt the hero glow;

He kiss'd his spouse, and said, with animation,

My dear, when next we meet, I'll rule the corporation!"

Ned's hopes were high-unanimous election

Would grace the minute in the council pages;

For not a brother ever made objection,

To smack his lips o'er foul Corruption's wages; But soon appear'd strong marks of disaffection,

False friends, bad faith, deceit, and broken pledges;

A travell'd taylor lately come to town,

Had hatch'd a secret plot to run our hero down.

It was, indeed, a most distressing case;

Ned's consternation we can well suppose;

To be oppos'd and jostl❜d in the race,

His nerves were quivering to his very toes:

Rage, hope, and fear, all struggl❜d in his face,

Cold drops of sweat came coursing down his nose! Now, neck or nought-one casting vote remains—

Ok! dreadful pause-'tis past-and Ned the conquest gains. As when at Marathon the dauntless Greek

Had laid the vaunting pride of Persia low;
Or Gallia's eagle, with the murderous beak,
At Lodi flapp'd his wings above the foe;
Such was the triumph on the Deacon's cheek,
Deep flush'd with victory's consoling glow;
Yet he with dignity himself comported,
When to his domicile by deputies escorted.

Drams, buns, seed-cakes, and condiments essential,
To grace her husband's now exalted station,
Meek Mrs Norie, like a spouse prudential,
Had ready set in splendid decoration:
While she, in attitude most reverential,

Before him stood, with due humiliation;

Some gentle feeling through his bosom ran,

"Sit down, my dear," he said—" I'm still a mortal man!"

"Tis two-the Corporation dines at four

Mean time they sit, and chuckle o'er their lunch;

As hungry geese the scatter'd grains devour,

They muscatels and car'way comfits munch :

With drams and grog their rusty throats they scour,
It was too early yet for brandy punch;

Grave as a judge, with magisterial air,

The Deacon sat serene, on high-back'd elbow chair.

The hour is come-they joyous take their rout,
Along the Murraygate they wend their way;
Then halt and face, wheel to the left about,
The landlord's name 'tis needless here to say;

Each Taodunian knows, beyond a doubt,

The house for feasting, famous to this day;
The folks so civil-and the fare so dainty,
There Amalthea pours her flowing horn of plenty.

"Twixt Cowgate-port, Tay-street, or Hawkhill-wynd,
I'll take a beta supper and a bowl,

That if his face is turn'd against the wind,
There's not a bon-vivant-a jovial soul,
But thither shall his way in safety find,

Though hood-wink'd deep, and blind as any mole!
You doubt my word-I must the truth disclose;
He'd snuff the scented gale, like beagle, by the nose.

Suppress that frown-nor scorn these ryhmes of mine,
Because I have my text and tale forsook ;
Step down the Murraygate then stop and dine-
Their savoury steaks will smoothe that angry look!
If you're an epicure-when o'er your wine,

You'll hug the landlord-ay, and kiss the cook!
Then drink the minstrel's health who sent you there,
To feast and gormandize on such delicious fare.
Now, since we've settled this momentous matter,
And you are calm-you see we've lost no time;
Below, we hear the plates and dishes clatter,
To hungry folks a symphony sublime :
Above, full many a taylor's mouth does water;
Now-joyous sound! the stairs the waiters climb;
But one more welcome now allays their gabble,
It tells the anxious guests, that dinner's on the table.
I cannot treat you with a bill of fare,

Nor modes of cooking every different dish;
Suffice to say, that water, earth, and air,

Were plunder'd, to supply flesh, fowl, and fish:
The table groan'd with dainties rich and rare;
In great abundance, as gourmand could wish;
Garden and orchard gave what was in season;

And many a sauce was there, which mocks both rhyme and reason!

Now rose a mix'd and multifarious din,

In dissonance unmusically mingling;

Above, below, around, without, within,

Plates, knives, and forks, bottles and glasses jingling:
One bawls for beer, another calls for gin;
And ever and anon the bell is tingling;

Nor least the sound, which never knew cessation,
The noise of busy jaws employ'd in mastication.

Such tempting cookery, and so much variety,
Prolong'd the pleasures of the splendid feast;
And every minute pass'd in such society,

Their palates tickl'd, and their joys increas'd:
But sweets will cloy, and fulness bring satiety;
At last the din of toiling grinders ceased;

Some lean'd, some yawn'd, some still, with anxious eye,
Askance the table view'd, and heav'd a secret sigh.

Remov'd the cloth, a smoking bowl capacious,
Illum'd each eye, diffusing fragrance round;

At first, of forms, and manners most tenacious,

Their Deacon's health, with three times three, went round;

The bowl replenish'd, kindled wit loquacious,

And Time and Care were both in bumpers drown'd;
I should have said, the Deacon, sage and sensible,

Express'd his grateful thanks, in style incomprehensible !

Of trades and corporations, church and state,
Much was disputed, and much more propounded,

In lengthen'd argument, and loud debate,

With curling clouds from cut and dry surrounded;
The pipe and glass produc'd from many a pate

Loud laugh, loose song, "confusion worse confounded;"
Some stole away, some bawl'd the bowl to fill ;
And some, who could not rise, most prudently sat still.

At last, the worthy Deacon left the chair,

And, cautiously, the creaking stairs descended;
Of faithful friends, now forward press'd a pair,
On right and left they to his steps attended;

So have I seen, a badger and a bear

Support an owl, on sculptur'd shield appended:
Some twenty yards the party boldly swagger'd,

Their brains began to whirl, zig-zag they reel'd and stagger'd.

"Twas late-no window show'd a gleam of light,
Cimmerian darkness seem'd each star to smother;
They turn-they pause-down drops a dizzy wight-
And trying to assist him-sinks the other!
With prudent care the Deacon keeps upright,

And gropes his way without a friend or brother;
Vertigo seiz'd him near an open vennel,

He paus'd, and heard a sound, low muttering in the kennel.

"Wha's there?" cried Ned.-" "Tis me !”—“ And wha are you ?” "Come! hic! a bumper to-hic!-Deacon Norie !”

"Och! willawins !-is that my friend Tam Dow,

Whose casting vote raised me to fame and glory?"
Ay, hic! the same-hic !-here's the royal blue!"
"Dear Tam, I'm wae at heart-exceeding sorry-

I canna stand-can neither raise-nor guide you;
But still, I'll stand your friend-so I'll lie down beside you!"

FOETRY DEVOTED TO POSTERITY, No. 1.—NAPOLEON AND OTHER POEMS, BY SAMUEL GOWER, ESQ.* FROM the prodigious masses of printed rhyme transmitted, by a muster-roll of versifiers, as long as that of a marching regiment, for our critical examination, or, to speak nearer the truth, for corrupting the course of literary justice by this sort of bribery, and thereby propitiating our favour, it need be matter of surprise neither to Whig nor Tory, Highflyer nor Moderate, that our earliest

attention has been called to a tome bearing the specious and attractive title of "NAPOLEON." The history

C. & J. Ollier, London, 1821, 8vo.

and the achievements of this wonderfully great, wicked, wise, foolish, anomalous being, are now indeed the property of history, in the pages of which his name will certainly occupy a pre-eminent, but not very enviable place. That name will, therefore, float down the tide of time, to after ages, independently of the aid of those paper sails, which Mr Gower has unfurled for his poetical pilot-boat-and, though presently degraded by association with this man's miserable doggerel, will yet, sooner or later, be "married to immortal verse." The poor fellow, opinion of his own performance, for, however, entertains a very different with a naiveté that is quite bewitch