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Each maid may give a loose to genial What harm? in spite of every critic elf,


Sir T. may read his stanzas, to himself; Each swain may teach new systems, or be Miles ANDREWS still his strength in couptaught:

lets try, There the blithe youngster, just return’d And live in prologues, though his dramas die.

from Spain, Lords too are Bards: such things at times Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling

befal, main;

And 'tis some praise in Peers to write at all. The jovial Caster's set, and seven's the nick, Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, Or-done!- a thousand on the coming trick! Ah! who would take their titles with their If mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire,

rhymes ? And all your hope or wish is to to expire, Roscommon! SHEFFIELD! with your spirits Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life,

fled, And, kinder still, a Paget for your wife. No future laurels deck a noble head; Fit consummation of an earthly race No Muse will cheer, with renovating smile, Begun in fully, ended in disgrace,

The paralytic puling of CARLISLE : While none but menials o'er the bed of death, The puny schoolboy and his early lay Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy waver- Men pardon, if his follies pass away;

ing breath; But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhy The mangled victim of a drunken brawl,

grow worse? To live like CLODIUs, and like Falkland fall. What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer!

Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer!

So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, Truth! rouse some genuine Bard, and His scenes alone had damnd our sinking guide his hand

stage: To drive this pestilence from out the land. But Managers for once cried "hold, enough!" Even I— least thinking of a thoughtless Nor drugg’d their audience with the tragic throng,

stuff. Just skill'd to know the right and chuse Yet at their judgment let hisLordship laugh,

the wrong,

And case his volumes in congenial calf: Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost Yes! doff that covering where Morocco To fight my course through Passion's count

less host, And hang a calf-skin on those recreant
Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way

Has lured in turn, and all have led astray-
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead,


Who daily scribble for your daily bread, Altho’some kind, censorious friend will say, with you I war not: GIFFORD's heavy hand “What art thou better, meddling fool, than Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerthey ?**

ous band. And every brother-rake will smile to see On“all the Talents" vent your venal spleen, That miracle, a Moralist in me.

Want your defence, let Pity be your screen. No matter, when some Bard, in virtue 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,

ing song,

And peace be with you!'tis your best reward. Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice Sach damning fame as Dunciads only gire Be only heard to hail him and rejoice; Could bid your lines beyond a morning Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise; though I

live; May feel the lash that virtue must apply. But now at once your fleeting labours close,

With names of greater note in blest repose.

Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid As for the smaller fry, who swarm in The lovely Rosa’s prose in masquerade,


Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her From silly Hafiz up to simple BOWLBA,

mind, Why should we call them from their dark Leave wondering comprehension far behind.


Though Crusca's bards no more our jourIn broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham Road?

nals fill, Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare Some stragglers skirmish round their coTo scrawl in verse) from Bond-street, or

lumns still.
the Square? Last of the howling host which once was
If things of ton their harmless lays indite,

Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, MATILDA snivels yet, and Hapiz yells;

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And MERRY': metaphors appear anew, Unless, perchance, from his cold bler she Chain'd to the signature of 0. P. Q.

turns, When some brisk youth, the tenant of To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, a stall,

BURNS! Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, No! tho' contempt hath mark'd the spurt Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of

ous brood, shoes,

The race whorhyme from folly,or for food, St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse, Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast, Heavens! how the vulgar stare ! how Who, least affecting, still affect the most

crowds applaud! Feel as they write, and write but as they How ladies read, and literati laud !

feel If chance some wicked wag should pass his Bear witness GIFFORD, SOTHEBY, MAONBIL.

jest, Tis sheer ill-nature ; don't the world know


“Why slumbers GIFFORD?" once was Genius must guide when wits admire the

ask'd in vain : rhyme,

Why slumbers GIFFORD ? let us ask again; And CAPEL Looft declares 'tis quite snblime. Are there no follies for his pen to purge ? Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade! Are there no fools whose backs demand the Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless

scourge? spade:

Are there no sins for Satire's Bard to greet? Lo!Burns and BLOOMFIELD, nay,a greater far, Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street? GIFFORD was born beneath an adverse star, Shall peers or princes tread Pollution's path, Forsook the labours of a servile state, And 'scape alike theLaw's and Muse's wrath? Stemm’d the rude storm and triumph'd over Nor blaze with guilty glare through future Fate :

time, Then why no more? ifPhæbus smiled on you, Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? BLOOMFIELD! why not on brother Nathan Arouse thee, GIFFORD! be thy promise too?

claim'd, Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seized; Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. Not inspiration, but a mind diseased : And now no boor can seek his last abode, No common be enclosed, without an ode. Unhappy WHITB! while life was in its Oh! since increased refinement deigns to

spring smile

And thy young muse just waved her joyous On Britain's sons, and bless our genial Isle,

wing, Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole, The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul: Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong, Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, Compose at once a slipper and a song ; When Science self destroyed her favourite So shall the fair your handiwork peruse;

son! Your sonnets sure shall please – perhaps Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,

She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd MayMoorland-weavers boast Pindaric skill,

the fruit. And taylors' lays be longer than their bill! 'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow, While punctual beaux reward the grateful And help'd to plant the wound that laid notes,

thee low : And pay for poems - when they pay for coats. So the struck eagle, streteh'd upon the plain,

No more through rolling clouds to soar

again, To the famed throng now paid the tribute View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,


And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his Neglected Genius! let me turn to you.

heart: Come forth, oh CAMPBELL! give thy talents Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel


He nursed the pinion which impell’d the Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ?

steel, And thou, melodious Rogers! rise at last, While the same plumage that had warm’d Recal the pleasing memory of the past;

his nest Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre!

breast. Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, Assert thy country's honour and thine own. What? must deserted Poesy still weep There be who say in these enlighten'd Where her last hopes with pious CowPBB

days sleep? That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ;

your shoes.

That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than Alone impels the modern bard to sing:

clear, 'T'is true that all who rhyme, nay, all who The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear,


In show the simple lyre could once surpass, Shrink from that fatal word to Genius– But now, worn down, appear in natire brass;


While all his strain of hovering sylphs Yet truth sometimes will lend her noblest

around, fires,

Evaporate in similies and sonnd : And decorate the verse herself inspires : Ilini let them shun, with him let tinsel die: This fact in Virtue's name let CRAbbe attest- False glare attracts, but more offends the eye Though nature's sternest painter,get the best.

Yet let them not to vulgar WORDSWORTH And here let Shes and Genius find a place,

stoop, Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace; The meanest object of the lowly group, Toguide whose hand the sister-arts combine, Whose verse,of all bat childish prattle void, And trace the poet's or the painter's line; Seems blessed harmony to Lamb and LLONE: Whose magic touch can bid the canvass Let them -- but hold, my muse, nor dare to glow,

teach Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow, A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach; While honours doubly merited attend The native genius with their feeling given The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. Will point the path, and peal their notes

to heaven.

lands ;


of yore;

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower

And thou, too, Scort! resign to minstrele Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour;

rude Whose steps have press’d, whose eye has The wilder Slogan of a Burder-fend :

mark'd afar Let others spin their meagre lines for hireThe clime that nursed the sons of song and Enough for genius if itself inspire!


Let SOUTHEY sing, although his teeming The scenes which glory still must hovero'er,

muse, Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore : Prolific every spring, be too profuse; But donbly blest is he whose heart expands Let simple WORDSWORTH chime his childish With hallow'd feelings for those classic


And brotherCOLERIDGE lull the babe at nurse; Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, Let spectre-mongering LBWis aim, at most, And views their remnants with a poet's eye! To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost; Wright ! 'twas thy happy lot at once to view Let Moore be lew'd ; let STRANGFORD steal Those shores of glory, and to sing them too;

from MOORE, And sure no common muse inspired thy pen And swear that CAMOENS sang ench notes To hail the land of gods and godlike men.

Let Hayley hobble on, MONTGOMERY rave,

And godly GRANAM chaunt a stupid stave; And you, associate Bards! who snatch'd Let sonnetteering Bowles his strains refine,

to light

And whine and whimper to the fourteenth Those gems too long withheld from modern


Let Stott, CARLISLE, MATILDA, and the rest Whose mingling taste combined to cull Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-Place the the wreath

best, Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the And all their renovated fragrance flung,

strain, To grace the beauties of your native tongue; Or common-sense assert her rights again; Now let those minds that nobly could But thou, with powers that mock the aid transfuse

of praise, The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone:

lays: Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. Thy conntry's voice, the voice of all the Nine,

Demand a hallow'd harp--that harp is thine.

Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield Let these, or such as these, with just The glorious record of some nobler field,

applause, Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, Restore the Muse's violated laws:

Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime,

of man? That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme; Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food

line ;

may claim


For outlaw'd SHERWOOD's tales of Robin To crown the bards that haunt her classic Hood ?

grove, Scotland! still proudly claim thy native Where RICHARDS wakes a genuine poet's Bard,

fires, And be thy praise his first, his best reward! And modern Britons justly praise their sires. Yet not with thee alone his name should live, But own the vast renown a world can give; Be known, perchance, when Albion is no For me, who thuo unask'd have dared more,

to tell And tell the tale of what she was before; My country what her sons should know To future times her faded fame recal,

too well, And save her glory, though his country fall. Zeal for her honour bade me here engage

The host of idiots that infest her age.

No just applauso her honour'd name shall Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope

lose, To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? As first in freedom, dearest to the Muse. New eras spread their wings, new nations Oh, would thy bards but emulate thy fame,


And rise inore worthy, Albion, of thy name! And other victors fill the applauding skies: What Athens was in science, Rome in power, A few brief generations fleet along, What Tyre appeard in her meridian hour, Whose sons forget the poet and his song: 'Tis thine at once, fair Albion, to have been, E'en now what once-loved minstrels scarce Earth's chief dictatress, Ocean's mighty

queen: The transient mention of a dubious name! But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the When Fame's loud trump hath blown it's

plain, noblest blast, And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at

main: last,

Like these thy strength may sink in ruin And Glory, like the Phønix midst her fires,

hurl'd, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world.

But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate,

With warning ever scoff"d at, till too late; Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, To themes less lofty still my lay confine, Expert in science, more expert at puns ? And urge thy bards to gain a name like thinc. Shall these approach the Muse ? ah, no!

she flies, And even spurns the great Seatonian prize, Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest, Though printers condescend the press to soil The senate's oracles, the people's jest! With rhyme by floare, and epic blank by Still hear thy motley orators dispense


The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, Nothin whose page,if still upheld by whist, While Canning's colleagues hate him for Requires no sacred theme to bid us list.

his wit,
Ye who in Granta's honours would surpass, And old dame PORTLAND fills the place of
Must mount her Pegasus, a fullgrown ass~

A foal well worthy of her ancient dam,
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam.
There CLARKE, still striving piteously “to Yet once again adieu ! ere this the sail


That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale: Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height, A would-be satirist a hired buffoon, And Stamboul's minarets must greet my A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,

sight: Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the Thence shall I stray through beanty's mean,

native clime, And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, Where Kaff is clad in rocks, and crown'd Devotes to scandal his congenial mind

with snows sublime. Hinself a living libel on mankind. But should I back return, no letter'd rage Oh, dark asylum of a Vandal race! Shall drag my common-place-book on the At once the boast of learning, and disgrace:

stage: So sunk in dulness and so lost in shame, Let vain VALENTIA rival luckless CABR, That Smythe and HODGson scarce redeem And equal him whose work he sought to mar;

thy fame!

Let ABERDEEN and ELGIN still pursue But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave,

The shade of fame through regions of Virtu; The partial muse delighted loves to lave; Waste useless thousands on their Phidian On her green banks a greener wreath is

freaks, wove,

Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques ; And make their grand saloons a general | And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, mart

Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. For all the mutilated blocks of art: The time hath been, when no harsh sound Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell,

would fall I leave topography to classic GELL; From lips that now may seem imbued with And quite content, no more shall interpose

gall, To stun mankind with poesy or prose.

Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise
The meanest thing that crawld beneath

my eyes : Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career, But now, 80 callous grown, so changed Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish

since youth, fear :

I've learned to think and sternly speak the This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to


Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree, Though not obtrusive, yet not quite un- And break him on the wheel he meant for me; known:

To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, My voice was heard again, though not 80 Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or loud ;

hiss : My page, though nameless, never disavow'd; Nay, more, though all my rival rhymesters And now at once I tear the veil away:

frown, Cheer on the pack! the quarry stands at bay, I too can hunt a poetaster down; Unscared by all the din of MELBOURNB-house, And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once By LAMB's resentment, or by HOLLAND'S To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dance. spouse,

Thus much I've dared to do; how far my lay By JEFFREY's harmless pistol, HALLAM's rage, Hath wrongd these righteous times, let EDINA's brawny sons and brimstone page. Our men in buckram shall have blows | This let the world, which knows not how enough,

to spare, And feel they too are "penetrable stuff: " Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare.

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others say ;


- Pallas te hac valnere, Pallas Immolat, et pænam scelerato ex sanguiné sumit.

be run,

heaven ;

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race | Mark his gay course and own the hues of Along Morea's hills the setting sun : Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. But one unclouded blaze of living light! O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he


On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it When, Athens! here thy wisest look'd his glows:

last: On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle, How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; That closed their murder'd sage's latest day! O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, Not yet-not yet-Sol pauses on the hill Though there his altars are no more divine. The precious hour of parting lingers still: Descending fast the mountain-shadows kiss But sad his light to agonizing eyes, Thy. glorious gulph, unconquer'd Salamis! And dark the mountain's once delightful Their azure arches through the long expanse,

dyes; More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,


The land where Phæbus never frown'd And tenderest tints, along their summits

before; But ere he sunk below Cithæron's head,


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