"Yourself and your friends!' cried the God in high glee; H

And pray, my frank visitor, who may you be?

<Who be? cried the other; why really this tone
William Gifford's a name, I think, pretty well known!* ind
́ ́Oh-now I remember,' said Phoebusah true obras A
My thanks to that name are undoubtedly due:

The rod, that got rid of the Cruscas and Lauras, nih
That plague of the butterflies,sav'd me the horrors;
The Juvenal too stops a gap in one's shelf,

t

At least in what Dryden has not done himself;

And there's something, which even distaste must respect, In the self-taught example, that conquer'd neglect.n, sel But not to insist on the recommendations

Of modesty, wit, and a small stock of patience,ˆ‚AZI My visit just now is to poets alone,

And not to small critics, however well known.'';

So saying he rang, to leave nothing in doubt,

And the sour little gentleman bless'd himself out. on sdT
Next came Walter Scott with a fine weighty face, A
For as soon as his visage was seen in the place,

talki¥¥ The diners and barmaids all crowded to know him, CA And thank him with smiles for that sweet pretty poem.

However, he scarcely had got through the door,
When he look'd adoration, and bow'd to the floor,

For his host was a God, what a very great thing!
And what was still greater in his eyes, a King! sup
Apollo smil'd shrewdly, and bade him sit down

.

With Well, Mr. Scott, you have manag'd the town;
Now pray, copy less,have a little temerity,

-Try if you can't also manage posterity.

-All you add now only lessens your credit;

And how could you think too of taking to edite?

A great deal's endur'd, where there's measure and rhyme;' But

prose such as your's is a pure waste of time,

A singer of ballads unstrung by a cough,
Who fairly talks on, till his hearers walk off.

Be original, man; study more, scribble less;

Nor mistake present favour for lasting success; tea baž
And remember, if laurels are what you would find,
The crown of all triumph is freedom of mind.11a mi baź
'And here,' cried Apollo, is one at the door,

Who shall prove what I say, or my art is no more. es 10ôi
Ah, Campbell, you're welcome well, how have you been
Since the last time I saw you on Sydenham-green? Bas

I need not ask after the plans you've in view;

'Twould be odd, I believe, if I had'nt them too:
But there's one thing I've always forgotten to mention,
Your versification,-pray give it invention.

A fancy like your's, that can play it's own part,
And clip with fine fingers the chords of the heart,
Should draw from itself the whole charm of it's
Nor put up with notes, that to others belong.'12
The poet to this was about to reply,

song

When Moore, coming in, caught the Deity's eye,
Who gave him his hand, and said, 'Shew me a sight
That can give a divinity sounder delight,

Or that earth should more prize from it's core to the poles,
Than the self-improved morals of elegant souls.
Repentant I speak it,-though when I was wild,

My friends should remember the world was a child,
That customs were diff 'rent, and young people's eyes.
Had no better examples than those in the skies..
But soon as I learnt how to value these doings,...

I never much valued your billings and cooings;
They only make idle the best of my race;

དོན་སྒོ

And since my poor Daphne turned tree in my face, wh

There are very few poets, whose caps or whose curls
Have obtained such a laurel by hunting the girls.

So it gives me, dear Tom, a' delight beyond measure,
To find how you've mended your notions of pleasure ;*
For never was poet, whose fanciful hours

Could bask in a richer abstraction of bowers,

With sounds and with spirits, of charm to detain
The wonder-eyed soul in their magic domain;
And never should poet, so gifted and rare,
Pollute the bright Eden Jove gives to his care,
But love the fair Virtue, for whom it is given,
And keep the spot pure for the visits of heaven."

13

He spoke with a warmth, but his accent was bland, \.

And the poet bow'd down with a blush to his hand,
When all on a sudden, there rose on the stairs

A noise as of persons with singular airs;

You'd have thought 'twas the Bishops or Judges a coming,
Or whole-court of Aldermen hawing and humming,
Or Abbot, at least, with his ushers before,..
But 'twas only Bob Southey and two or three more.
As soon as he saw him, Apollo seem'd pleas'd; 5
But as he had settled it not to be teaz'd

By all the vain dreamers from bed-room and brook,

He turn'd from the rest without even a look; dt Jurd ell

For Coleridge had vex'd him long since, I suppose,"
By his idling, and gabbling, and muddling in prose; 16Ě
And Wordsworth, one day, made his very hairs bristle,"
By going and changing his harp for a whistle. 7o at 30
These heroes however, long used to attack,

1

Were not by contempt to be so driven back, g di vill
But follow'd the God up, and shifting their place,
Stood full in his presence, and look'd in his face;
When one began spouting the cream of orations
In praise of bombarding one's friends and relations; 180
And t'other some lines he had made on a

straw

ol Shewing how he had found it, and what it was for, ed And how, when 'twas balanc'd, it stood like a spell! And how, when 'twas balanc'd no longer, it fell! kuh A wild thing of scorn he describ'd it to be, abies, tod But he said it was patient to heaven's decree teari Then he gaz'd upon nothing, and looking forlorn, Dropt a natural tear for that wild thing of scorn ! 190le !!]

Apollo half laughed betwixt anger and mirth,
And cried, Was there ever such trifling on earth? 4 101)