The bard sighs forth a gentle episode;
And gravely tells-attend, each beauteous
miss!-

When first Madeira trembled to a kiss.
Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell,
Stick to thy sonnets, man!-at least they sell.
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe,
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a
scribe;

If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd,

Now, prone in dust, can only be revered;

If Pope, whose fame and genius from the first
Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst,
Do thou essay; each fault, each failing scan;
The first of poets was, alas! but man.
Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl,
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll:
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 for 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?
Boeotian 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, not I.
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!-Phoebus! 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.

Mr Maurice had manufactured the component parts of a ponderous quarto, upon the Beauties of Richmond Hill,

With broken lyre, and cheek serenly pale, Lo! sad Alcæus wanders down the vale; * Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd

at last,

His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast:
Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales,
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails!
O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield 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?t

Health to immortal Jeffrey! once, in name, In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, England could boast a judge almost the same; Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust, To sentence letters as he sentenced men. And given the spirit to the world again, 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 wield in judgment, and at length to wear." Health to great Jeffrey! Heaven preserve

his life,

To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife,
And guard it sacred in its 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 Bow Street myrmidons stood laughing by?!
Oh, day disastrous! on her firm-set rock,
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock;
Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth,
Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north;
Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear,
The other half pursued its calm career;

Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base,
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place.
The Tolbooth felt-for marble sometimes can,
On such occasions, feel as much as man-
The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms,
If Jeffrey died, except within her arms;
Nay, last, not least, on that portentous morn,
The sixteenth storey, where himself was born,
His patrimonial garret, fell to ground,
And pale Edina shuddered at the sound:
Strew'd were the streets around with milk-

white reams,

Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams; This of his candour seem'd the sable dew, That of his valour showed the bloodless hue; And all with justice deem'd the two combined The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er

The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore;

From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead, And straight restored it to her favourite's head; That head, with greater than magnetic power, Caught it, as Danae caught the golden shower, And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine,

Augments its ore, and is itself a mine.

My son," she cried, "ne'er thirst for gore again,
Resign the pistol and resume the pen;
O'er politics and poesy preside,

Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide!
For long as Albion's heedless sons submit,
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit,
So long shall last thine unmolested reign,
Nor any dare to take thy name in vain.
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan,
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan.
First in the ranks illustrious shall be seen
The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen.
Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer, and some-
times,

*

In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes. Smug Sydney, too, thy bitter page shall seek, And classic Hallam, much renown'd for Greek Scott may perchance his name and influence lend,

And paltry Pillans shall traduce his friend; While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe,§ As he himself was damn'd, shall try to damn. Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway! Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay; While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes.

* Mr Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. One of the principal pieces is a Song on the Recovery of Thor's Hammer: the translation is a pleasant chant in the vulgar tongue, and endeth thus:

Instead of money and rings, I wot, The hammer's bruises were her lot: Thus Odin's son his hammer got." + The Reverend Sydney Smith. Pillans was a tutor at Eton, and afterwards a Professor at Edinburgh University.

§ The Honourable G. Lambe reviewed Beresford's Miseries, and is, moreover, author of a farce enacted with much applause at the Priory, Stanmore; and damned with great expedition at Covent Garden. It was entitled Whistle for It.

escape,

And tinge with red the female reader's cheek,
My lady skims the cream of each critique;
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul,
Reforms each error, and refines the whole.

Now to the Drama turn-Oh! motley sight!
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite!
Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent,
And Dibdin's nonsense, yield complete content.§
Though now, thank Heaven, the Rosciomania's
o'er,ll

And full grown actors are endured once more; Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, While British critics suffer scenes like these, While Reynolds vents his "Dammes!"

"Poohs!" and "Zounds!" And commonplace and common sense confout.ds? While Kenny's World, just suffer'd to proceed, Proclaims the audience very kind indeed! And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords A tragedy complete in all but words ?** Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage, The degradation of our vaunted stage? Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone? Have we no living bard of merit?-none!

Marquis of Lansdowne.

† Certain it is, her Ladyship is suspected of having displayed her matchless wit in the Edinburgh Review. However that may be, we know from good authority that the manuscripts are submitted to her perusal-no doubt for correction.

In the melodrama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapt into a barrel on the stage-a new asylum for distressed heroes.

§ Thomas Dibdin, author of The Cabinet, English Fleet, Mother Goose, &c., and son of the great English lyrist.

The performances of a child called the young Roscius; his name was Betty.

Author of the farce of Raising the Wind, and other pieces.

**Mr T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury Lane Theatre, stripped the tragedy of Bonduca of the dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of Caractacus.

Truth! rouse some genuine bard, and guide

his hand

To drive this pestilence from out the land.
E'en I-least thinking of a thoughtless throng,
Just skill'd to know the right and choose 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: Although 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 chastening

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

If things of ton their harmless lays indite,
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight,
What harm? In spite of every critic elf,
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself;
Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try,
And live in prologues though his dramas die.
Lords too are bards, such things at times befall.
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.

stretched before me all that remained of courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a gallant and successful officer: his faults were the faults of a sailor; as such, Britons will forgive them. He died like a brave man in a better cause [he was killed in a duel]; for had he fallen in like manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just appointed, his last moments would have been held up by his countrymen as an example to succeeding heroes.

| Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh,
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 numerou
band.

On "all the talents" vent your venal spleen;
Want is your plea, 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 Bell has lost his nightingales and owls,
Matilda snivels still, and Hafiz howls;
And Crusca's spirit, rising from the dead,
Revives in Laura, Quiz, and X.Y.Z.†

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, St Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse, Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds

applaud!

How ladies read, and literati laud!

If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 'Tis sheer ill-nature-don't the world know besti Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, And Capel Lofft declares 'tis quite sublime.t Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade! Swains, quit the plough resign the useless spade!

Lo, Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far,
Gifford was born beneath an adverse star,
Forsook the labours of a servile state,
Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over

fate:

Then why no more? if Phoebus smiled on you,
Bloomfield, why not on brother Nathan too?
Him too the mania, not the muse, has seized;
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased:
And now no boor can seek his last abode,
No common be enclosed, without an ode.§
Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smil
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle,
Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole,

*This lively little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew K-, seems to be a follower of the Della Crusca school, and has published two volumes of very respectable absurdities ir rhyme, as times go; besides sundry novels ir the style of the first edition of The Monk.

These are the signatures of various wor thies who figure in the poetical departments of the newspapers.

Capel Lofft, Esq., the Mæcenas of shoe makers, and preface-writer-general to distressed

versemen,

§ See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode on the enclosure of Honington Green.