Place me along the rocks I love, Which sound to ocean's wildest roar; I ask but this-again to rove The world was ne'er design'd for me; The hour when man must cease to be? A visionary scene of bliss; I loved-but those 1 loved are gone; When all its former hopes are dead! Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul, Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power, Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boist'rous Joy is but a name. And Woman! lovely Woman, thou, My hope, my comforter, my all! This busy scene of splendid woe, I seek to shun, not hate mankind; LINES How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. An imitation of Macpherson's Ossian.1 DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! but their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind! they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests, he rolls his form in the whirlwind; and hovers on the blast of the mountain. In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood; Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear: but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locksthey stream'd like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul; his thoughts were given to friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla, gentle alone to Calmar. Together they WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD dwelt in the cave of Oithona. OF HARROW on THE HILL. SEPT. 2, 1807. SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, 1 Psalm lv. v..6.-" And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove, then would I fly away and be at rest." This verse Biso constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our anguage From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin. Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies ; but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs. They stood around. The king was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers 1 It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and Euryalus,” of which episode a translation has been al ready given. CRITIQUE EXTRACTED FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, NO. 22, FOR JANUARY 1808. "Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure translated. By GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even a Minor. 8vo. pp. 200.-Newark, 1807. when accompanied by the presence of a certain number of feet; nay, although (which does not always happen) THE poesy of this young Lord belongs to the class those feet should scan regularly, and have been all which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, counted accurately upon the fingers,-it is not the we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, with so few deviations in either direction from that that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than the present day, to be read, must contain at least one if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation thought, either in a little degree different from the ideas of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward of former writers, or differently expressed. We put it in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, to his candour, whether there is any thing so deserving and on the very back of the volume; it follows his the name of poetry in verses like the following, written name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is in 1806; and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say laid upon it in the preface, and the poems are connected any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, a youth of with this general statement of his case, by particular nineteen should publish it: dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he might plead minority; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled.ter than these stanzas in the whole compass of the nobl Perhaps however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder, than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, "See how a minor can write! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen!"But, alas! we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences; that it happens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in England; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron. His other plea of privilege our author rather brings forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestorssometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; and while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consideration only, that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account. "Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, "That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish, minor's volume. what the greatest poets have done before him, for Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at his writing-master's,) are odious.-Gray's Ode on Etor. College should really have kept out the ten hobbling stanzas "On a distant view of the village and school of Harrow.' "Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr Rogers "On a Tear," might have warned the noble author off those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as the following: "Mild Charity's glow, And so of instances in which former poets had failed. last and youngest of a noble line." There is a good Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made for trans-deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on lating, during his non-age, Adrian's Address to his Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his Soul, when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the at- youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a tempt. If our readers, however, are of another opinion, bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle. they may look at it. 'Ah! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite, To what unknown region borne, However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian; and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79,1 a translation, where two words (0ɛλw λeyɛiv) of the original are expanded into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81,2 where μεσονυκτίαις ποθ' ώραις, is rendered by means of six hobbling verses? As to his Ossianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that species of composition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the following beginning of a "Song of Bards" is by his Lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it. "What form rises on the roar of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 't is Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was,” etc. After detaining this "brown chief" some time, the bards conclude by giving him their advice to “raise his fair locks ;" then to "spread them on the arch of the rainbow ;" and "to smile through the tears of the storm." Of this kind of thing there are no less than nine pages; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look very like Macpherson; and we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. As the author has dedicated so large a part of his volume to immortalize his' employments at school and college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without presenting the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effusions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, we have the following magnificent stanzas: There, in apartments small and damp, Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, From authors of historic use, The square of the hypothenuse. That hurt none but the hapless student, Which bring together the imprudent." stanzas: "Our choir would scarcely be excused To such a set of croaking sinners. Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To us his psalms had ne'er descended: but In furious mood he would have tore 'em!' But whatever judgment may be passed on the poems of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we find them, and be content; for they are the last we shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, an intruder into the groves of Parnassus; he never lived It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but in a garret, like thorough-bred poets; and "though he they should "use it as not abusing it ;" and particu- once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of arly one who piques himself (though indeed at the Scotland," he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. ripe age of nineteen) of being "an infant bard," Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication; ("The artless Helicon I boast is youth;")-should either and, whether it succeeds or not, "it is highly improbanot know, or should seem not to know, so much about ble, from his situation and pursuits hereafter," that he his own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the should again condescend to become an author. Therefamily seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven fore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What pages, on the selfsame subject, introduced with an right have we poor devils to be nice? We are well off apology, "he certainly had no intention of inserting to have got so much from, a man of this Lord's station, it," but really "the particular request of some friends," etc., etc. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, "the who does not live in a garret, but, "has the sway" of Newstead Abbey. Again, 'we say, let us be thankful; and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, not look the gift horse in the mouth. PREFACE.1 than the author, that some known and able writer hac undertaken their exposure; but Mr. GIFFORD has de voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nosbe "turned from the career of my humour by quibbles trum, to prevent the extension of so deplorable an quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I should have epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatcomplied with their counsel. But I am not to be ter- ment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is rified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or with- to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can reout arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none cover the numerous patients afflicted with the present personally who did not commence on the offensive. prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. As to An author's works are public property: he who pur- the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would indeed require a chases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the author succeeds. and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate in merely "bruising one of the heads of the serpent," may do by me as I have done by them: I dare say they though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, will succeed better in condemning my scribblings than he will be amply satisfied. in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better. As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy of public perusal. In the first edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted at the request of an ingenious friend of mine, who has now in the press a volume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead; my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with in the same mannerperson any other -a determination not to publish with my name any production which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition. ENGLISH BARDS, etc. etc. STILL must I hear?-shall hoarse FITZGERALD1 baw Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my gray goose-quill! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, That mighty instrument of little men! Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes With regard to the real talents of many of the poet-Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose, ical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the The lover's solace, and the author's pride: author that there can be little difference of opinion in What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise! ɩne public at large; though, like other sectaries, each How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his With all the pages which 't was thine to write. But thou, at least, mine own especiai pen! metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of Once laid aside, but now assumed again, considerable genius by several of the writers here censured, renders their mental prostitution more to be "Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne reponam. regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri ?"-Juvenal. Sat. 1 laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the "Smallthe most decided reprehension. No one can wish more | Beer Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the "Lit 1 IMITATION. erary Fund;" not content with writing, he spouts in person, 1 This Preface was written for the second edition of this after the company have imbibed a reasonable quantity of bad Poem, and printed with it. port, to enable them to sustain the operation. |