By those foreign accents dear, By thine eyes of sapphire splendour, By thy pouting, by thy smiles, Think upon the parting day, Think of many a dearer token, May 8.-How does it happen, good Murray, that you have taken to imitations of the Excursion? When our honest friend, Davenant, has pestered me with the depths and doctrines of that redoubtable and inscrutable bard, for nine hours by Shrewsbury clock, it was to your support that I ever looked with confidence; by your authority every defence was maintained and every reproach rebutted. As for me, I am incorrigible. I wish well to my country and my friends,-but I never could get through the Excursion! I should like to be voted a genius, but I never could get through the Excursion! I rather affect singularity,but I never could get through the Excursion! I think on the whole that a daisy is rather a pretty thing,-but, lack-a-daisy, I never could get through the Excursion! Many of my idols eulogized it; but I could not believe! Many endeavoured to explain; but I remembered "The Critic," and vowed the interpreter was the more unintelligible of the two. Well, my beloved apostate, here follows your imitation. I trust you will stop in time; for if you ever arrive at a comfortable quarto, large text, smart title page, price two guineas, and Longman, I must positively cut the connexion. IMITATION OF THE EXCURSION. :::: Our pathway winded o'er a barren moor, In natural beauties; for the matted heath And delicate harebells trembled in the breath To its mysterious music. For to him, In undivided aspiration rapt, Was blended with the goodly universe, Look you there now! if this atrocious narcotic have not dispatched half our readers. I must transcribe a few more of your verses, most rhyming and romantic Murray, by way of antidote. Here is your "Complaint of a Poet." A poet has no right to complain. If the public buy him, he is the happiest of men, and if they do not, he is very happy notwithstanding. He has visitings, and dreaminess, and imaginings, and crusts of bread, and proof-sheets, and twenty comforts of which other people only know the name. COMPLAINT OF A POET. "Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus." And will not listening ladies deign And matrons praise, with accent bland, Till glowing soul, and passion high, In indignation's noblest flood, And tears of feeling, deep and strong, Now thou may'st not fickle be; HOR. May 10.-I received some stanzas from Davenant. By my faith they form a very pretty receipt for the cure of the vapours, of which I would the said Davenant would oftener avail himself. He is truly a happy man who, in the sullens, or in the King's Bench, or in rainy weather, can coin cheerfulness from his mistress' glance, Bank-notes from his mistress' handwriting, or sunshine from his mistress' smile. Are these the Metamorphoses of which Davenant promiseth performance ? When fortune forsakes me, Sigh not for me! Sigh not for me! In thee I shall find My lost peace of mind; There is hope in thy charms, While thou art so fair! Should sickness come nigh me, Sigh not for me! Should riches still fly me, Sigh not for me! In thee I have health, While thou art so fond! If honour should leave me, Sigh not for me! If friendships deceive me, Sigh not for me! I will think upon fame As a troublesome name, And friendships shall seem The shade of a dream; How can I repine Whilst Anna is mine? May 10.-Lady Mary, dear creature, has just sent me a sonnet, and a and some stanzas by Gerard. By the way her ladyship intended to have constituted herself" sole arbitress" of the fate of my pretty fugitives,-the world was to have been cloyed with the sweets of " Lady Mary's Reticule." Fickle creature! If the First of June were not so nigh, I would abdi cate-if it were only for the charming motto that Ovid might have given her : "Gramina disponunt; sparsosque sine ordine flores Novit." SONNET. TO A DREAM. Wert thou an emanation from above, With thy sweet looks, and tones of heavenly love? To teach me that I was not quite forlorn; That love, and peace, and joy, might yet return, G. TO Once more, and yet once more, mine early love, The tones that thrill'd my heart in other days; Upon thee, like a garland of wild flowers. But care and inward strife have temper'd down Mourning; or partial love in thee might trace Young, playful, frank, high-minded; whom, to her queen |