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To crown with honour thee and WALTER Sepulchral GRAHAM, ponrs his notes sublime


In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme, Again all hail! Iftales like thine may please, Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease ; And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch; Even Satan's self with thee might dread to And, undisturb’d by conscientious qualms,


Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the And in thy skull discern a deep hell.


Who, in soft guise, surrounded by a choir Hail Sympathy! thy soft idea brings Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, A thousand visions of a thousand things, With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion And shows, dissolved in thine own melting flush'd,

tears, Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames The maudlin Prince of mournful sonneteers.

are hush'd ?

And art thou not their Prince, harmonious Tis Little! young Catullus of his day,

Bowles ! As sweet, but as immoral in his lay! Thou first, great oracle of tender souls ! Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still Whether in sighing winds thou seekst relief,

be just,

Or consolation in a yellow leaf; Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. Whether thy muse most lamentably tells Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns; What merry sounds proceed from Oxford From grosser incense with disgust she turns:

bells, Yet, kind to youth, this expiation o'er, Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend, She bids thee, “mend thy line and sin no In every chime that jingled from Ostend?


Ah! how much juster were thy Muse's hap,
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap!

Delightful Bowles! still blessing and still For thee, translator of the tinsel song,

blest, To whom such glittering ornaments belong, All love thy strain, but children like it best. Hibernian STRANGFORD! with thine eyes of 'Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE's moral song,


To soothe the mania of the amorous throng! And boasted locks of red, or auburn hne, With thee our nursery-damsels shed their Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss

tears, admires,

Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years: And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, But in her teens thy whining powers are vaim Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's She quits poor Bowles, for LITTLE's purer sense,

strain. Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine Thinkst thou to gain thy verse a higher The lofty numbers of a harp like thine:


"Awake a louder and a loftier strain," By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace ? Such as none heard before, or will again; Mend, STRANGFORD! mend thy morals and Where all discoveries jumbled from the thy taste;

flood, Bewarm,but pure; be amorous, but be chaste: Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, Cease to deceive; thy pilfer'd harp restore, By more or less, are sung in every book, Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy MOORE. From Captain Noan down to Captain Cook.

Nor this alone, but pausing on the road,

The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode; In many marble-covered volumes view And gravely tells - attend each beauteous HAYLEY, in vain attempting something new :

Miss! Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme,

When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. Or scrawl, as Wood and BARCLAY walk, Bowles!in thy memory let this precept dwell,

'gainst time, Stick to thy Sonnets, man! at least they sell. His style in youth or age is still the same, But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, For ever feeble and for ever tame.

Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee Triumphant first see “Temper's Triumphs"

for a scribe; shine!

If chance some bard, though once by dunces At least I'm sure they triumph'd over mine.

feared, Of “Music's Triumphs" all who read may Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ;

If Pope, whose fame and genius from the first That luckless Music never triumph'd there. Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst,

Do thou essay; each fault, each failing scan:

The first of poets was, alas! but man! Moravians,rise! bestow some meet reward Rake from each ancient dunghill every On dull Devotion-lo! the Sabbath-Bard,


& Wear

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Consult Lord FANNY, and confido in CUBL; | Though fair they rose and might have Let all the scandals of a former age

bloom'd at last, Perch on thy pen and flutter o'er thy page; His hopes have perish'd by the northern Affect a candour which thou canst not feel,

blast: Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal; Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales, Write as if St. John's soul could still inspire, His blossoms wither as the blast prevails! And do from hate what MALLET did for hire. O'er his lost works let classicSABFFIELD Weep; Oh! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, May no rude hand disturb their early sleep! To rave with DENNIS, and with Ralph to

rhyme, Throng'd with the rest around his living Yet say! why should the Bard at once head,

resign Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead, His claim to favour from the sacred Nine? A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious For ever startled by the mingled howl


Of northern wolves, that still in darkness And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains.

prowl: A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, By hellish instinct, all that cross their

way: Another Epic! who inflicts again Aged or young, the living or the dead, More books of blank upon the sons of men ? No mercy find—these harpies must be fed. Baotian COTTLE, rich Bristowa's boast, Why do the injured'unresisting yield Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, The calm possession of their native field ? And sends his goods to market-all alive! Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five! Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to ABTHUR'S Fresh fish from Helicon! who'll buy? who'll

Seat ? buy? The precious bargain's cheap-in faith not I. Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight, Health to immortal JEFFREY! once,in name, Too much o'er bowls of Rack prolong the England could boast a judge almost the same:


In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust,


And given the Spirit to the world again, And Amos COTTLB strikes the Lyre in vain. To sentence letters as he sentenced men; In him an author's luckless lot behold! With hand less mighty, but with heart as Condemn'd to make the books which once

black, he sold.

With voice as willing to decree the rack; Oh! Amos COTTLE! Phæbus !- what a name Bred in the courts betimes, though all that To fill the speaking trump of future fame!

law Oh! Amos COTTLE! for a moment think As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw; What meagre profits spring from pen and ink! Since, well instructed in the patriot school When thus devoted to poetic dreams, To rail at party, though a party-tool, Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? Who knows, if chance his patrons should Oh! pen perverted ! paper misapplied !

restore Had Cottle still adornd the counter's side, Back to the sway they forfeited before, Bent o’er the desk, or, born to useful toils, His scribbling toils some recompense may Been taught to make the paper which he soils,

meet, Plough’d, delved, or plied the oar with | And raise this Daniel to the Judgment-seat?

lusty limb,

Let JEFFRIES' shade indulge the pious hope, He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. And greeting thus, present him with a rope:

“Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind!

Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, As Sisyphus against the infernal steep This cord receive-for thee reserved with Rolls the huge rock, whose motions ne'er

care, may sleep, To yield in judgment, and at length to wear." So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond ! heaves Dull MAURICE all his granite - weight of

leaves :

Health to great JBFPREY! Heaven preSmooth, solid monuments of mental pain!

serve his life, The petrifactions of a plodding brain, To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, That ere they reach the top fali lumbering And guard it sacred in his future wars,

back again.
Since authors sometimes seek the field of


Can none remember that eventful day, With broken lyre and cheek serenely palo That ever glorious, almost fatal fray, Lo! sad ALCÆUS Wanders down the vale! When LITTLE's leadless pistol met his eye,

And Bow-street myrmidons stood laugh-| Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway!

ing by ?

Thy HOLLAND's banquets shall each toil Oh day disastrous ! on her firm set rock,

repay; Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock; While grateful Britain yields the praise Dark roll’d the sympathetic waves of Forth,

she owes Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the To HOLLAND's hirclings, and to Learning! north;

foes, TWRED ruffled half his wave to form a tear, Yet mark one caution, ere thy next Review The other half pursued its calm career; Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, ARTHUR's steep summit nodded to its base; Beware lest blundering BROUGHAM destroy The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place?

the sale, The Tolbooth felt--for marble sometimes Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail."


Thus having said, the kilted Goddess kist On such occasions, feel as much as man-Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist. The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms Illustrious HOLLAND! hard would be his lot, If JEFFREY died, except within her arms: His hirelings mention'd and himself forgot! Nay, last not least, on that portentous morn HOLLAND, with Henry Petty at his back, The sixteenth story, where himself was The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack.


Blest be the banquets spread at HollandHis patrimonial garret fell to ground,

House, And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound : Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may Strew'd were the streets around with milk

carouse! white reams,

Long, long beneath that hospitable roof Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams; Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept This of his candour seem'd the sable dew,

That of his valour shew'd the bloodless hue, See honest HALLAM lay aside his fork,
And all with justice deem'd the two combined Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work,
The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. And, grateful to the founder of the feast,
But Caledonia's Goddess hover'd o'er Declare his landlord can translate, at least!
The field, and saved him from the wrath Dunedin! view thy children with delight,

of MOORE; They write for food, and feed because they From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead,

write, And straight restored it to her favourite's And lest, when heated with th' unusual

grape, That head, with greater than magnetic Some glowing thoughts should to the press power,

escape, Caught it, as Danaē the golden shower, And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, And, though the thickening dross will My lady skims the cream of each critique;

scarce refine, Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. Reforms each error and refines the whole. “My son,” she cried, “ne'er thirst for gore

again, Resign the pistol and resume the pen; Now to the Drama turn. Oh,motley sight! O’er politics and poesy preside,

What precious scenes the wondering eyes
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide!

For, long as Albion's heedless sons submit, Pans, and a prince within a barrel pent,
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete
So long shall last thine unmolested reign,

Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. Though now, thank Heaven! the Roscio-
Behold a chosen band shall aid thy plan,

mania's o'er, And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. And full-grown actors are endured once First in the ranks illustrious shall be seen

more ; The travell’d Thane! Athenian ABERDEEN. Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, HBRBERT shall wield Tror's hammer, and While British critics suffer scenes like these?

sometimes, While REYNOLDS vents his "dammes, poohs, In gratitude, thon'lt praise his rugged

and zounds," rhymes.

And common - place, and common-sense Smug SYDNEY too thy bitter page shall seek,

confounde? And classic HALLAM, much renown'd for While KENNY's World, just suffer'd to Greek.

proceed, Scott may perchance his name and influ- Proclaims the audience very kind indeed?

ence lend, And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords And paltry PILLANN shall traduce his friend; A tragedy complete in all but words? While gay Thalia's lucklesa votary, Lame, Who but must mourn while these are all As he himself was damnd, shall try to damn.

head ;




the rage,



The degradation of our vaunted stage ? And bless the promise which his form Heavens! is all sense of shame, and talent


Whilo Gayton bounds before the enraptured Have we no living bard of merit ?- none?!

looks Awake, GEORGE COLMAN,CUMBERLAND awake! Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes : Ring the alarum-bell, let folly quake! Let high-born letchers eye the lively Presle Oh SAERIDAN! if aught can move thy pen, Twirl her light limbs that spurn the needLet Comedy resume her throne again,

less veil: Abjure the mummery of German schools, Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; Wave the white arm and point the pliant toe; Give, as thy last memorial to the age, Collini trill her love-inspiring song, One classic drama, and reform the stage. Strain her fair neck and charm the listGods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear

ening throng! her head

Raise not your scythe, suppressors of our Where GARRICK trod, and KEMBLE lives to

vice! tread?

Reforming Saints, too delicately nice! On those shall Farce display buffoonery's By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save,


No sunday-tankards foam, no barbers shave, And Hooks conceal his heroes in a cask ? And beer undrawn and beards uninown Shall sapient managers new scenes produce

display From CHERRY, SKEFFINGTON, and Mother Your holy reverence for the sabbath-day.

Goose ?


Or hail at once the patron and the pile

Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle! On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? Lo!with what pomp the daily prints proclaim

Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hal

low'd fane, The rival candidates for Attic fame! In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, Spreads wide her portals for the 'motley

train, Still SKEFFINGTON and Goosk divide the


Behold the new Petronius of the day,

The arbiter of pleasure and of play! And sure great SKEFFINGTON must claim

our praise,

There the hiredEunuch, the Hesperian choir, For skirtless coats, and skeletons of plays The song from Italy, the step from France,

The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, Renown'd alike; whose genius ne'er confines Her flight to garnish GREENWOOD's gay The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine,

The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance,

designs; Nor sleeps with “Sleeping Beautics,” but For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and

lords combine: In five facetious acts comes thundering on,

Each to his humour,-Comus all allows; While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with Champaign, dice, music, or your neigh

bour's spouse. Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean;

Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade! But as some hands applaud, a venal few! Ofpiteous ruin, which ourselves have made: Rather than sleep,why John applauds it too.

In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask,
Nor think of Poverty, except "en masque,'

When for the night some lately titled ass Such are we now, ah! wherefore should Appears the beggar which his grandsire was.

The curtain dropp'd, the gay Burletta o'er,

we turn To what our fathers were, unless to mourn? The audience take their turn upon the floor; Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame,

Now round the room the circling dow'gers

sweep, Or, kind to dulness, do ye fear to blame? Well may the nobles of our present race

Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face;

leap : Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, The last display the free, unfetter'd limb:

The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, And worship Catalani's pantaloons, Since their own drama yields no fairer trace with art the charms which Nature could

Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace.

not spare ;

These after husbands wing their eager Then let AUSONIA, skill'd in every art,

flight, To soften manners, but corrupt the heart,

Nor leave much mystery for the nuptialPour her exotic follies o'er the town,

night. To sanction vice and hunt decorum down: Let wedded strumpets languish o’er Des- Oh! blest retreats of infamy and ease !


Where, all forgotten but the power to please,


the scene,


lets try,

grow worse

Each maid may give a loose to genial What harm? in spite of every critio el,


Sir T. may read his stanzas, to himself; Each swain may teach new systems, or be Miles Andrews still his strength in coup

tanght: There the blithe youngster, just return’d And live in prologues, though his dramas die.

from Spain, Lords too are Bards: such things at times Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling

befal, main ;

And 'tis some praise in Peers to write at all. The jovial Caster's set, and seven's the nick, Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, Or-done !-- a thousand on the coming trick! Ah! who would take their titles with their If mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire,

rhymes ? And all your hope or wish is to to expire, RosCOMMON! SAKFYIELD! with your spirits Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life,

fled, And, kinder still, a Pagbt for your wife. No future laurels deck a noble head; Fit consummation of an earthly raco No Muse will cheer, with renovating smile, Begun in folly, ended in disgrace, The paralytic puling of CARLISLE : While none but menials o’er the bed of death, The puny schoolboy and his early lay Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy waver- Men pardon, if his follies pass away;

ing breath ; But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes The mangled victim of a drunken brawl, To live like CLODIUS, and like FALKLAND fall. What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer!

Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer!

So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, Truth! rouse some genuine Bard, and His scenes alone had damnd our sinking guide his hand

stage : To drive this pestilence from out the land. But Managers foronce cried "hold, enough!" Even I— least thinking of a thoughtless Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic throng,

stuff. Just skill'd to know the right and chuse Yet at their judgment let hisLordship laugh,

the wrong,

And case his volumes in congenial calf: Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost Yes! doff that covering where Morocco To fight my course through Passion's count

shines, less host,

And hang a calf-skin on those recreant Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way

lines. Has lured in turn, and all have led astrayE'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel Such scenes, such men, destroy the public With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead,


Who daily scribble for your daily bread, Altho’some kind, censorious friend will say, with you I war not: GIFFORD's heavy hand “What art thou better, meddling fool, than Has crush'd, without remorse, your numer

ous band. And every brother-rake will smile to see On "all the Talents” vent your venal spleen, That miracle, a Moralist in me.

Want your defence, let Pity be your screen. No matter, when some Bard, in virtue Let Monodies on Fox regale your crew,


And Melville's Mantle prove a blanket too! GIFFORD Perchance, shall raise the chasten- One common Lethe waits each hapless bard,

ing song,

And peace be with you! 'tis your best reward. Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice Such damning fame as Dunciads only give Be only heard to hail him and rejoice; Could bid your lines beyond a morning Rejoice,and yield my feeble praise; though I

live; May feel the lash that virtue must apply. But now at once your fleeting labours close,

With names of greater note in blest repose.

Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid As for the smaller fry, who swarm in The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade,


Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her From silly Hafiz up to simple BowLES,

mind, Why should we call them from their dark Leave wondering comprehension far behind.


Though CBusca's bards no more our jourIn broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham Road?

nals fill, Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare Some stragglers skirmish round their coTo scrawl in verse) from Bond-street, or

lumns still. the Square? Last of the howling host which once was If things of ton their harmless lays indite,

Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, MATILDA snivels yet, and Hafiz yells;

they ?"

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