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
Let all the scandals of a former age
Perch on thy pen and flutter o'er thy page;
Affect a candour which thou canst not feel,
Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal;
Write as if St. John's soul could still inspire,
And do from hate what MALLET did for hire.
Oh! hadst thou lived in that congenial time,
To rave with DENNIS, and with RALPH to
rhyme,

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
More books of blank upon the sons of men?
Baotian COTTLE, rich Bristowa's boast,
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast,
And sends his goods to market—all alive!
Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five!
Fresh fish from Helicon! who'll buy? who'll
buy?

The precious bargain's cheap-in faith notI.
Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight,
Too much o'er bowls of Rack prolong the
night:

If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the
brain,

And AMOS COTTLE strikes the Lyre in vain.
In him an author's luckless lot behold!
Condemn'd to make the books which once
he sold.

Oh! AMOS COTTLE! Phœbus!-what a name
To fill the speaking trump of future fame!-
Oh! Amos COTTLE! for a moment think
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink!
When thus devoted to poetic dreams,
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams?
Oh! pen perverted! paper misapplied!
Had COTTLE still adorn'd the counter's side,
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils,
Been taught to make the paper which he soils,
Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with
lusty limb,

He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep Rolls the huge rock, whose motions ne'er may sleep,

So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond! heaves
Dull MAURICE all his granite-weight of
leaves:

Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain!
The petrifactions of a plodding brain,
That ere they reach the top fall lumbering
back again.

With broken lyre and check serenely palo Lo! sad ALCEUS wanders down the vale!

Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales,
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails!
O'er his lost works let classicSHEFFIELD Weep;
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep!

Yet say! why should the Bard at once
resign
His claim to favour from the sacred Nine?
For ever startled by the mingled howl
Of northern wolves, that still in darkness
prowl:
A coward brood,which mangle as they prey,
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way:
Aged or young, the living or the dead,
No mercy find-these harpies must be fed.
Why do the injured unresisting yield
The calm possession of their native field?
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat,
Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to ARTHUR'S
Seat?

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 decree the rack;
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that
law

As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw;
Since, well instructed in the patriot school
To rail at party, though a party-tool,
Who knows, if chance his patrons should

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-
serve his life,
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife,
And guard it sacred in his future wars,
Since authors sometimes seek the field of
Mars!

Can none remember that eventful day,
That ever glorious, almost fatal fray,
When LITTLE's leadless pistol met his eye,

And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask?
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce
From CHERRY, SKEFFINGTON, and Mother Your holy reverence for the sabbath-day.

Each maid may give a loose to genial

thought,

Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught:

There the blithe youngster, just return'd from Spain,

Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling
main;

The jovial Caster's set, and seven's the nick,
Or-done! - a thousand on the coming trick!
If mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire,
And all your hope or wish is to to expire,
Here's POWELL's pistol ready for your life,
And, kinder still, a PAGET for your wife.
Fit consummation of an earthly race
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace,
While none but menials o'er the bed of death,
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy waver-
ing breath;

Traduced by liars, and forgot by all,
The mangled victim of a drunken brawl,
To live like CLODIUS, and like FALKLAND fall.

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
That miracle, a Moralist in me.
No matter when some Bard, in virtue
strong,

GIFFORD perchance, shall raise the chasten-
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?

What harm? in spite of every critic elf,
Sir T. may read his stanzas, to himself;
MILES ANDREWS still his strength in coup-
lets try,

And live in prologues,though his dramas die.
Lords too are Bards: such things at times
befal,

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;
No Muse will cheer, with renovating smile,
The paralytic puling of CARLISLE :
The puny schoolboy and his early lay
Men pardon, if his follies pass away;
But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse,
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes
grow worse?
What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer!
Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer!
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age,
His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking
stage:

But Managers for once cried “hold, enough!"
Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic
stuff.

Yet at their judgment let hisLordship langh,
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 numer-
ous 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!
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard,
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,
With names of greater note in blest repose.
Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid
The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade,
Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her
mind,

Leave wondering comprehension far behind.
Though CRUSCA's bards no more our jour-
nals fill,

Some stragglers skirmish round their co

lumns still.
Last of the howling host which once was
BELL'S,

If things of ton their harmless lays indite,
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, | MATILDA snivels yet, and Hafız yells;

And MERRY's metaphors appear anew, Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q. When some brisk youth, the tenant of To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, a stall, Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes,