PREFACE

TO THE SECOND EDITION.

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 are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author that there can be little difference of opinion in the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here censured, renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the author, that some known and able writer had undertaken their exposure; but Mr. GIFFORD has devoted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the regular

ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be "turn'd from the carcer of my humour by quibbles quick, and paper-bullets of the brain," I should have complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none personally who did not commence on the offensive. An author's works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better. As the Poem has met with far more suc-physician, a country-practitioner may, in cess than I expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations to render it more worthy of public perusal.

In the first edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted at the request of an ingenious friend of mine, who has now in the press a volume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead: my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner-a determination not to publish with my name

cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum, to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming.-As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would, indeed, require a Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the author succeeds in merely “bruising one of the heads of the serpent," though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, 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
small,

His creaking couplets in a tavern-hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my
Muse?

Prepare for rhyme-I'll publish, right or
wrong:

Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.

Oh! Nature's noblest gift—my gray goose-
quill!

Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent-bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental
throes

Of brains that labour, big with verse or
prose,

Though nymphs forsake, and critics may
deride

The lover's solace, and the author's pride:
What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy
praise!

Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to
write.

But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be
free;

Tho' spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream
Inspires—our path, though full of thorns,
is plain;

Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sove-
reign sway,
And men, through life her willing slaves,
obey;

When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Unfolds her motley store to suit the time;
When knaves and fools combined o'er all
prevail,

When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail,
E'en then the boldest start from public

sneers,

Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from
law.

Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all!
I too can scrawl, and once upon a time
I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme-
A schoolboy - freak, unworthy praise or
blame:

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.
Not that a title's sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMB must own, since his patrician

name

Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame.

No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, Tho' now the name is veil'd from public sight.

Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own
review:

Not seek great JEFFREY's -- yet, like him,
will be
Self-constituted judge of poesy.

A man must serve his time to every trade,
Save censure-critics all are ready made.
Take hackney'd jokes from MILLER, got by
rote,

With just enough of learning to misquote,
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault;
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;
To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for
wit;
Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest,
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd.

And shall we own such judgment? no

as soon

Seek roses in December, ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
Believe a woman, or an epitaph;
Or any other thing that's false, before
You trust in critics who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By JEFFREY's heart, or LAMB's Bœotian
head.

To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste; To these, when authors bend in humble awe, And hail their voice as truth, their word as law;

Such is the force of Wit! but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song; The royal vices of our age demand A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. Still there are follies e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the race: Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame-While such are critics,why should I forbear?

While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare;

But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
"Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to
shun;

Nor know we when to spare, or where to
strike,

Our bards and censors are so much alike.

Then should you ask me, why I venture

o'er

The path which POPE and GIFFORD trod
before;

If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied, No fabled Graces, flourish'd side by side, From the same fount their inspiration drew, And, rear'd by Taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew.

Then, in this happy isle, a POPE's pure strain
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought
in vain;

A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame.
Like him great DRYDEN pour'd the tide of

song;

O'er Taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevaik
Each country-book-club bows the knee to
Baal,

And, hurling lawful genius from the throne,
Erects a shrine and idol of its own;
Some leaden calf- but whom it matters not,
From soaring SOUTHEY down to groveling
STOTT.

Behold! in various throngs the scribb
ling crew,
For notice eager, pass in long review:
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race,
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And tales of terror jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along ;
For simpering Folly loves a varied song,
To strange mysterious Dulness still the
friend,

Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels — may they be the
last!

On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast,

While mountain-spirits prate to river sprites, That dames may listen to their sound at nights!

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

strong;

Then CONGREVE's scenes could cheer, or
OTWAY'S melt-
For nature then an English audience felt.
But why these names, or greater still,
retrace,

When all to feebler bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are
cast,

When taste and reason with those times
are past.
Now look around,and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the

age;

wood,

And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows
why;

While high-born ladies in their magic cell
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell,
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave,
And fight with honest men to shield a knave.

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,

This truth at least let Satire's self allow, 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 grace— And printers' devils shake their weary bones; | A mighty mixture of the great and base. While SOUTHEY's epics cram the creaking And thinkst thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit shelves, perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance, Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine

And LITTLE's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves.

To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line?
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade.
Let such forego the poet's sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre,not for fame:
Low may they sink to merited contempt,
And Scorn remunerate the mean attempt!
Such be their meed,such still the just reward
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard!
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son,
And bid a long "good night to Marmion.”

These are the themes that claim our | If still in Berkley Ballads, most uncivil, plaudits now; Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue: “God help thee," SOUTHEY, and thy readers too.

These are the bards to whom the muse
must bow:
While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot,
Resign their hallow'd bays to WALTER SCOTT.

|

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