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For the Angel of Death spread his wings And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

on the blast, And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by And breathed in the face of the foe as he

the sword, pass'd;

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly

Lord ! and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for

XXIII. ever grew still!

FROM JOB. And there lay the steed with his nostril

all wide,

A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld But through it there rollid not the breath The face of Immortality unveild

of his pride : Deep sleep came down on every eye save And the foam of his gasping lay white on

minethe turf,

And there it stood,-all formless_but divine And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;

And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake: And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on “Is man more just than God? Is man his mail;

more pure And the tents were all silent, the banners Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure!


Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust! The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. The moth survives you,and are ye more just?

Things of a day! you wither ere the night, And the widows of Ashur are loud in Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted their wail,



Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce summo

The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by
the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gqul; his moral virtues,
and military talents were loudly celebrated; and those who
derived any private benefit from his government announced
in prophetic strains the restoration of public ielicity.

By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years,
in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile,

Gibson's Decline and Fall, Chapt. 36.

Tis donc,but yesterday a King ! With might unquestion d,- power to saveAnd arm’d with Kings to strive

Thine only gift hath been the grave And now thou art a nameless thing

To those that worshipp'd thee; So abject-yet alive!,

Nor, till thy fall, could mortals guess Is this the man of thousand thrones, Ambition's less than littleness ! Who strew'd our Earth with hostile


Thanks for that lesson-it will teach
And can he thus survive ?

To after-warriors more
Since he, miscall'd the Morning-Star, Than high Philosophy can preach,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. And vainly preach'd before.

That spell upon the minds of inen
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind Breaks never to unite again,
Who bow'd so low the knee?

That led them to adore
By gazing on thyself grown blind, Those Pagod-things of sabre-sway,
Thou taught'st the rest to scc.

With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.

The triumph, and the vanity,

Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, The rapture of the strife

When thus thy mightiest foes their fear The earthquake-shout of Victory,

In humblest guise have shown.
To thee the breath of life;

Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway A brighter name to lure mankind !
Which man seem'd made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife-.

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,
All quell’d!— Dark Spirit! what must be Nor written thus in vain-
The madness of thy memory!

Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,

Or deepen every stain. The Desolator desolate!

If thou hadst died as honour dies, The Victor overthrown !

Some new Napoleon might arise, The Arbiter of others' fate

To shame the world againA Suppliant for his own!

But who would soar the solar height, Is it some yet imperial hope

To set in such a starless night?
That with such change can calmly scope?
Or dread of death alone?

Weigh'd in the balance, hero-dust
To die a prince-or live a slave-

Is vile as vulgar clay;
Thy choice is most ignobly brave! Thy scales, Mortality! are just

To all that pass away;
He who of old would rend the oak, But yet methought the living great
Dream'd not of the rebound;

Some higher sparks should animate,
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke,

To dazzle and dismay; Alone- how look'd he round ?

Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirth Thon, in the sternness of thy strength Of these, the Conquerors of the earth! An equal deed hast done at length, And darker fate hast found:

And She, proud Austria's mournful flower, He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey;

Thy still imperial bride; But thou must eat thy heart away!

How bears her breast the torturing hour?

Still clings she to thy side? The Roman, when his burning heart

Must she too bend, must she too share Was slaked with blood of Rome,

Thy late repentance, long despair, Threw down the dagger - dared depart,

Thou throneless Homicide? In savage grandeur, home.

If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, He dared depart, in utter scorn

'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem ! Of men that snch a yoke had borne,

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour

And gaze upon the sea ;
Of self-upheld abandon'd power.

That element may meet thy smile,

It ne'er was ruled by thee!

Or trace with thine all idle hand,
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell,

In Joitering mood, upon the sand,

That Earth is now as free!
Cast crowns for rosaries away, .

That Corinth's pedagogue hath now
An empire for a cell;
A strict accountant of his beads,

Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. A subtle disputant on creeds,

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage His dotage trifled well:

What thoughts will there be thine, Yet better had he neither known

While brooding in thy prison'd rage ? A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

But one "The world was mine :"

Unless, like he of Babylon,
But thou—from thy reluctant hand All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
The thunderbolt is wrung

Life will not long confine
Too late thou leav'st the high command

That spirit pour'd so widely forth-
To which thy weaknessi clung;

So long obey'd -80 little worth!
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart,

Or like the thief of fire from heaven, To see thine own unstrung;

Wilt thou withstand the shock ? To think that God's fairy world hath been And share with him, the unforgiven, The footstool of a thing so mean ;

His vulture and his rock!

Foredoom'd by God--by man accurst, And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, And that last act, though not thy worst, Who thus can hoard his own!


Fiend's arch mock;
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, He in his fall preserved his pride,
And thank'd him for a throne!

And, if a mortal, had as proudly died !

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I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre-ballad-mongers.


Such shameless Bards we have ; and yet, 'tis trno,
There are as mad, abandon'd Critics too.







any production which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition.

With regard to the real talents of many

of the poetical persons whose performances All my friends, learned and unlearned, are mentioned or alluded to in the follov. have urged me not to publish this Satire ing pages, it is presumed by the author with my name. If I were to be “turn'd that there can be little difference of opinion from the career of my humour by quibbles in the public at large; though, like other quick, and paper-bullets of the brain," I sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle should have complied with their counsel. of proselytes, by whom his abilities are But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or overrated, hie faults overlooked, and bis bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. metrical canons received without scruple I can safely say that I have attacked none and without consideration. But the unpersonally who did not commence on the questionable possession of considerable geoffensive. An author's works are public nius by several of the writers here censored, property: he who purchases may judge, renders their mental prostitution more to and publish his opinion if he pleases; and be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, the authors I have endeavoured to comme- at worst, laughed at and forgotten; permorate may do by me as I have done by verted powers demand the most decided them. I dare say they will succeed better reprehension. No one can wish more than in condemning my scribblings, than in the author, that some known and able wrimending their own. But my object is not ter had undertaken their exposure; but to prove that I can write well, but, if pos- Mr. GIFFORD has devoted himself to Massible, to make others write better.

singer, and, in the absence of the regular As the Poem has met with far more suc- physician, a country-practitioner may, in cess than I expected, I have endeavoured cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to in this edition to make some additions and prescribe his nostrum, to prevent the exalterations to render it more worthy of tension of so deplorable an epidemic, propublic perusal.

vided there be no quackery in his treatment In the first edition of this Satire, published of the malady. A caustic is here offered, anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject as it is to be feared nothing short of actual of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted cautery can recover the numerous patients at the request of an ingenious friend of mine, afflicted with the present prevalent and who has now in the press a volume of distressing rabies for rhyming.--As to the poetry. In the present edition they are Edinburgh Reviewers, it would, indeed, reerased, and some of my own substituted in quire a Hercules to crush the Hydra; bat their stead: my only reason for this being if the author succeeds in merely “bruising that which I conceive would operate with one of the heads of the serpent,” though any other person in the same manner-a his own hand should suffer in the encoundetermination not to publish with my namel ter, he will be amply satisfied.


STILL must I hear?-shall hoarse Fitz-The cry is up, and Scribblers are my game;

GERALD bawl Speed, Pegasus !--ye strains of great and His creaking couplets in a tavern-hall,

small, And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all! Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my I too can scrawl, and once upon a time

Muse ?

I pour'd along the town a flood of rhymePrepare for rhyme - I'll publish, right or A schoolboy - freak, unworthy praise or wrong:

blame: Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. I printed - older children do the same.

Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;

A book's a book, altho' there's nothing in't. Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my gray goose- Not that a title's sounding charm can save


Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, This Lamb must own, since his patrician Torn from thy parent-bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men! Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental

shame. throes

No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, Of brains that labour, big with verse or Tho' now the name is veil'd from public prose,

sight. Though nymphs forsake, and critics may Moved by the great example, I pursue


The self-same road, but make my own The lover's solace, and the author's pride:

review: What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise! Not seek great JEFFREY's -- yet, like him, How frequent is thy use, how small thy

will be
praise !

Self-constituted judge of poesy.
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to


A man must serve his time to every trade, But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! Save censure-critics all are ready made. Once laid aside, but now assumed again, Take hackney'd jokes from MILLER, got by Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be

rote, free;

With just enough of learning to misquote, Tho' spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me: A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault; Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet, Inspires—our path, though full of thorns, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:

is plain;

Fear not to lie, 'twill scem a lucky hit; Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for


Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest, When Vice triumphant holds her sove- And stand a critic, hated yet caress’d.

reign sway, And men, through life her willing slaves,


And shall we own such judgment? noWhen Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Unfolds her motley store to suit the time; Seek roses in December, ice in June; When knaves and fools combined o'er all Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;


Believe a woman, or an epitaph; When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail, Or any other thing that's false, before E'en then the boldest start from public You trust in critics who themselves are sore;


Or yield one single thought to be misled Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, By JEFFREY's heart, or LAMB's Bæotian More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,

head. And shrink from ridicule, though not from

To these young tyrants, by themselves

misplaced, Such is the force of Wit! but not belong Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste; To me the arrows of satiric song ;

To these, when authors bend in humble awe, The royal vices of our age demand And hail their voice as truth, their word A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.

as law; Still there are follies e'en for me to chase, While these are censors, 'twould be sin to And yield at least amusement in the race:

spare; Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame-While such are critics, why should I forbear?

as soon

But yet, so near all modern worthies run, O'erTaste awhile these pseudo-bards prevaik 'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to Each country-book-club bows the knee to shun;

Baal, Nor know we when to spare, or where to And, hurling lawful genius from the throne,


Erects a shrine and idol of its own; Our bards and censors are so much alike. Some leaden calf, but whom it matters not,

From soaring SOUTHEY down to groveling

STOTT. Then should you ask me, why I venture

o'er The path which PopB and GIFFORD trod Behold! in various throngs the scribbbefore;

ling crew, If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed; For notice eager, pass in long review: Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read. Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,

And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race,

Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode; Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days And tales of terror jostle on the road; Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, Immeasurable measures move along; When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied, For simpering Folly loves a varied song, No fabled Graces, flourish'd side by side, To strange mysterious Dulness still the From the same fount their inspiration drew,

friend, And, rear'd by Taste, bloom'd fairer as Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.

they grew.
Thus Lays of Minstrels -

may they be the Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain

last! Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought On half-strung harps whine mournful to in vain;

the blast, A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim, While mountain-spiritsprate to river sprites, And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. That dames may listen to their sound at Like him great DRYDEN pour'd the tide of

nights! song ;

And goblin-brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood, In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly Decoy young border-nobles through the strong;

wood, Then CONGREVE's scenes could cheer, or And skipat every step,Lord knows how high,

Orway's melt- And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows For nature then an English audience felt.

why; But why these names, or greater still, While high-born ladies in their magic cell


Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, When all to feebler bards resign their place? Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, Yet to such times our lingering looks are And fight with honest men to shield a knare.

cast, When taste and reason with those times

are past.

Next view in state, proud prancing on Now look around, and turn each trifling page,

his roan, Survey the precious works that please the The golden-crested haughty Marmion,


Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the This truth at least let Satire's self allow,

fight, No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now: Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, The loaded press beneath her labour groans, | The gibbet or the field prepared to graceAnd printers’devils shake their weary bones; A mighty mixture of the great and base. While SOUTHBY's epics cram the creaking And thinkst thou, Scott] by vain conceit shelves,

perchance, And LITTLB's lyrics shine in hot-press'd On public taste to foist thy stale romance,

Though MURRAY with his MILLER may


To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? Thus saith the Preacher, “nought beneath No! when the sons of song descend to trade,

the sun

Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. Is new;" yet still from change to change Let such forego the poet's sacred name,

Who rack their brains for lucre,not for fame: What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! Low may they sink to merited contempt, The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas And Scorn remunerate the mean attempt! In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, Such be their meed,such still the just reward Till the swoln bubble bursts—and all is air. Of prostitated muse and hireling bard! Nor less new schools of poetry arise, For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:1 And bid a long “good night to Marmion."

we run:

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