To crown with honour thee and WALTER | Sepulchral GRAHAM, pours his notes sublime SCOTT: Again all hail! Iftales like thine may please, St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease; Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. Who, in soft guise, surrounded by a choir Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd, Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hush'd? 'Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day, As sweet, but as immoral in his lay! Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just, Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns; From grosser incense with disgust she turns: Yet, kind to youth, this expiation o'er, She bids thee, "mend thy line and sin no 1 more." In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme, Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. Hail Sympathy! thy soft idea brings A thousand visions of a thousand things, And shows, dissolved in thine own melting tears, The maudlin Prince of mournful sonneteers. Thou first, great oracle of tender souls? Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend, All love thy strain, but children like it best. 'Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE's moral song, To soothe the mania of the amorous throng! With thee our nursery-damsels shed their tears, Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years: But in her teens thy whining powers are vaim She quits poor BowLES, for LITTLE's purer strain. Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine The lofty numbers of a harp like thine: "Awake a louder and a loftier strain," Such as none heard before, or will again; Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood, Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, By more or less, are sung in every book, From Captain NOAH down to Captain COOK. Nor this alone, but pausing on the road, The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode; And gravely tells attend each beauteous Miss! When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. If chance some bard, though once by dunces bloom'd at last, His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast: Consult Lord FANNY, and confide in CURL; | Though fair they rose and might have Throng'd with the rest around his living head, Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead, A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. Another Epic! who inflicts again The precious bargain's cheap-in faith not I. If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the And AMOS COTTLE strikes the Lyre in vain. Oh! AMOS COTTLE! Phœbus!-what a name He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales, Yet say! why should the Bard at once A coward brood,which mangle as they prey, Health to immortal JEFFREY! once,in name, England could boast a judge almost the same: In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust, And given the Spirit to the world again, To sentence letters as he sentenced men; With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, With voice as willing to decrce the rack; As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw; restore Back to the sway they forfeited before, His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, And raise this Daniel to the Judgment-seat? Let JEFFRIES' shade indulge the pious hope, And greeting thus, present him with a rope: "Heir to my virtues! man of equal mind! Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, This cord receive-for thee reserved with care, To yield in judgment, and at length to wear." Health to great JEFFREY! Heaven pre- Can none remember that eventful day, And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing by? Oh day disastrous! on her firm set rock, TWEED ruffled half his wave to form a tear, can, Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway! Thy HOLLAND's banquets shall each toil repay; While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes To Holland's hirclings, and to Learning's foes, Yet mark one caution, ere thy next Review Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, Beware lest blundering BROUGHAM destroy the sale, 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: Nay, last not least, on that portentous morn The sixteenth story, where himself was born, His patrimonial garret fell to ground, That head, with greater than magnetic power, Caught it, as Danaë the golden shower, And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine, Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. Resign the pistol and resume the pen; In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged Scort may perchance his name and influence lend, And paltry PILLANS shall traduce his friend; While gay Thalia's buckless votary, LAME, As he himself was damn'd, shall try to damn. His hirelings mention'd and himself forgot! HOLLAND, with HENRY PETTY at his back, The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. Blest be the banquets spread at HollandHouse, Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse! Long, long beneath that hospitable roof Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. See honest HALLAM lay aside his fork, Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, And, grateful to the founder of the feast, Declare his landlord can translate, at least! Dunedin! view thy children with delight, They write for food, and feed because they write, And lest, when heated with th' unusual grape, Some glowing thoughts should to the press The degradation of our vaunted stage? Heavens! is all sense of shame, and talent gone? Have we no living bard of merit?-none? Where GARRICK trod, and KEMBLE lives to tread? On those shall Farce display buffoonery's mask, And bless the promise which his form displays; While Gayton bounds before the enraptured looks Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes: Let high-born letchers eye the lively Presle Twirl her light limbs that spurn the needless veil: | Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, Wave the white arm and point the pliant toe; Collini trill her love-inspiring song, Strain her fair neck and charm the listening throng! Raise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice! Reforming Saints, too delicately nice! And HOOKE conceal his heroes in a cask? While SHAKESPEARE, OTWAY, MASSINGER, GOOSE? forgot, On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? Lo!with what pomp the daily prints proclaim The rival candidates for Attic fame! In grim array though LEWIS' spectres rise, Still SKEFFINGTON and Goose divide the prize. And sure great SKEFFINGTON must claim our praise, For skirtless coats, and skeletons of plays Renown'd alike; whose genius ne'er confines Her flight to garnish GREENWOOD's gay designs; Nor sleeps with "Sleeping Beauties," but anon In five facetious acts comes thundering on, While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene, Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean; But as some hands applaud, a venal few! Rather than sleep,why John applauds it too. Such are we now, ah! wherefore should we turn To what our fathers were, unless to mourn? Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame, Or, kind to dulness, do ye fear to blame? Well may the nobles of our present race Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face; Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, And worship Catalani's pantaloons, Since their own drama yields no fairer trace Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. Or hail at once the patron and the pile Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle! Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane, Spreads wide her portals for the motley lords combine: Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, leap: The last display the free, unfetter'd limb: With art the charms which Nature could Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair not spare; These after husbands wing their eager flight, Then let AUSONIA, skill'd in every art, To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, night. Oh! blest retreats of infamy and ease! Where, all forgotten but the power to please, Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught: What harm? in spite of every critio elf, Sir T. may read his stanzas, to himself; MILES ANDREWS still his strength in couplets try, There the blithe youngster, just return'd | And live in prologues,though his dramas die. Lords too are Bards: such things at times befal, from Spain, Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main; Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, Truth! rouse some genuine Bard, and guide his hand To drive this pestilence from out the land. Even I-least thinking of a thoughtless throng, Just skill'd to know the right and chuse the wrong, Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost To fight my course through Passion's countless host, Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way 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 weal; Altho' some kind, censorious friend will say, "What art thou better, meddling fool, than they?" And every brother-rake will smile to see And 'tis some praise in Peers to write at all. Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, Ah! who would take their titles with their rhymes? Roscommon! SHEFFIELD! with your spirits fled, No future laurels deck a noble head; But Managers for once cried "hold, enough!" Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. Yet at their judgment let hisLordship laugh, And case his volumes in congenial calf: Yes! doff that covering where Morocco shines, And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines. With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead, Who daily scribble for your daily bread, With you I war not: GIFFORD's heavy hand Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. On "all the Talents" vent your venal spleen, Want your defence, let Pity be your screen. 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, strong, ing song, Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice Be only heard to hail him and rejoice; Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise; though I May feel the lash that virtue must apply. As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals, From silly HAFIZ up to simple BOWLES, Why should we call them from their dark abode, In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham Road? Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street, or the Square? If things of ton their harmless lays indite, Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, And peace be with you! 'tis your best reward. Such damning fame as Dunciads only give Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; But now at once your fleeting labours close, Leave wondering comprehension far behind. |