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The following Lines were written by Mr. FITZGERald, in a
Copy of ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS :—

I FIND Lord Byron scorns my muse—
Our fates are ill agreed!

His verse is safe-I can't abuse

Those lines I never read.

W. F. F.

His Lordship accidentally met with the Copy, and subjoined the following pungent Reply:

WHAT'S Writ on me, cried Fitz, I never read ;-
What's wrote by thee, dear Fitz, none will indeed.
The case stands simply thus, then, honest Fitz—
Thou and thine enemies are fairly quits,
Or rather would be, if, for time to come,

They luckily were deaf, or thou wert dumb-
But, to their pens, while scribblers add their
tongues,*

The waiter only can escape their lungs.

* Mr. FITZGERALD is in the habit of reciting his own poetry. See note to English Bards, p. 167.

THE

CURSE OF MINERVA,

ETC.

Pallas te hac vulnere, Pallas

Immolat, et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit.

THE

CURSE OF MINERVA,

A POEM.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun:

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows:
On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle,

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulph, unconquer'd Salamis !
Their azure arches through the long expanse,
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven;

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, When, Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last: How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, That closed their murder'd* sage's latest day! Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hillThe precious hour of parting lingers still : But sad his light to agonizing eyes, And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes; Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, The land where Phoebus never frown'd before; But ere he sunk below Citharon's head, The cup of woe was quaff'd—the spirit fled; The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or flyWho lived and died as none can live or die!

But, lo! from high Hymettus to the plain, The queen of night asserts her silent reign ;†

* Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down.

The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our coun