Where no fair science ever shows her face, | Yet more her volumes teach,—on these we look Some in close fight their dubious claims maintain; Some skirmish lightly, fly and fight again; way. When first Religion came to bless the land, Her friends were then a firm believing band; To doubt was, then, to plunge in guilt extreme, And all was gospel that a monk could dream; She, in her turn, demands to reign alone; How Fancy loves around the world to stray, Of genius, bound by neither space nor time;- And matter, in its various form, discerns; She parts the beamy light with skill profound, Metes the thin air, and weighs the flying sound; Tis hers, the lightning from the clouds to call, And teach the fiery mischief where to fall. Here, first described, the torpid carth appears, And next, the vegetable robe it wears; Where flow'ry tribes, in valleys, fields and groves, Nurse the still flame, and feed the silent loves; Loves, where no grief, nor joy, nor bliss, nor pain, Warm the glad heart or vex the labouring brain; But as the green blood moves along the blade, The bed of Flora on the branch is made; Where, without passion, love instinctive lives, And gives new life, unconscious that it gives. Advancing still in Nature's maze, we trace, In dens and burning plains, her savage race; With those tame tribes who on their lord attend, And find, in man, a master and a friend: Man crowns the scene, a world of wonders new, A moral world, that well demands our view. This world is here; for, of more lofty kind, These neighbouring volumes reason on the mind; They paint the state of man ere yet endued With knowledge; — man, poor, ignorant, and rude; Then, as his state improves, their pages swell, And all its cares, and all its comforts, tell: Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain. Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge the soul, New interests draw, new principles control: Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief, But here the tortured body finds relief; For see where yonder sage Arachne shapes Her subtile gin, that not a fly escapes! There PHYSIC fills the space, and far around, Pile above pile, her learned works abound: Glorious their aim to ease the labouring heart; To war with death, and stop his flying dart; Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure; Say ye, who search these records of the dead, Who read huge works, to boast what ye have read; Can all the real knowledge ye possess, guess, Atone for each impostor's wild mistakes, That will not prompt a theorist to write? The subtile nerves, that shun the doctor's eye, Escape no more his subtler theory; The vital heat, that warms the labouring heart, Lends a fair system to these sons of art; The vital air, a pure and subtile stream, Serves a foundation for an airy scheme, Assists the doctor, and supports his dream. Some have their favourite ills, and each disease Is but a younger branch that kills from these: One to the gout contracts all human pain, Ye first seducers of my easy heart, Ye dull deluders, truth's destructive foes; Light up false fires, and send us far about;— Near these, and where the setting sun displays, Through the dim window, his departing rays, Yet, as the best that human care can do, And justice vainly each expedient tries, When all were blest to share a common store, And none were proud of wealth, for none were poor; No wars, nor tumults vex'd each still domain, Drove modest merit from its proper state; And in rude song his ruder idol praised ; Those to control, and these to succour trade; Next, HISTORY ranks;-there full in front And every nation her dread tale supplies; near; There time conceals the objects from our view, Here our own passions and a writer's too: Yet, in these volumes, see how states arose! Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes; Their virtue lost, and of their triumphs vain, Lo! how they sunk to slavery again! Satiate with power, of fame and wealth possess'd, A nation grows too glorious to be blest; Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all, And foes join foes to triumph in her fall. Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's race, The monarch's pride, his glory, his disgrace; The headlong course that madd'ning heroes run, How soon triumphant and how soon undone; How slaves, turn'd tyrants, offer crowns to sale, And each fall'n nation's melancholy tale. Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood, Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood; There, such the taste of our degenerate age, Stand the profane delusions of the STAGE: Yet virtue owns the TRAGIC MUSE a friend, Fable her means, morality her end; For this she rules all passions in their turns, And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns; Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl, For vice in others is abhorr'd of all, Not thus her sister COMEDY prevails, Who shoots at folly, for her arrow fails; Folly, by dulness arm'd, eludes the wound, And harmless sees the feather'd shafts rebound; Unhurt she stands,applauds the archer's skill, means; How formal fools the farce of state applaud; With her the virtues too obtain a place, And all that ought to live, and all that lives. But who are these? Methinks a noble mien And awful grandeur in their form are seen, Now in disgrace: what though by time is spread Polluting dust o'er every reverend head; What though beneath yon gilded tribe they lie, And dull observers pass insulting by: Forbid it shame, forbid it decent awe, What seems so grave, should no attention draw! Come, let us then with reverend step advance, And greet-the ancient worthies of ROMANCE. Hence, ye profane! I feel a former dread, A thousand visions float around my head: Hark! hollow blasts through empty courts resound, And shadowy forms with staring eyes stalk round; See! moats and bridges, walls and castles rise, Ghosts, fairies, demons, dance before our eyes; Lo' magic verse inscribed on golden gate, And bloody hand that beckons on to fate:And who art thou, thou little page, unfold? Say, doth thy lord my Claribel withhold ? Go tell him straight, Sir Knight, thou must resign The captive queen ;-for Claribel is mine. Away he flies; and now for bloody deeds, move, love: Foes to our race! if ever ye have known With rage as sudden dash'd the stanza out ; Released from bondage with my virgin-If, after fearing much and pausing long, Ye ventured on the world your labour'd song, She comes! she comes! in all the charms of youth, Unequall'd love and unsuspected truth! Where wild Enchantment waves her potent wand, And Fancy's beauties fill her fairy-land; Where doubtful objects strange desires excite, And Fear and Ignorance afford delight. Too dearly bought: maturer judgment calls No more the midnight fairy-tribe I view, All in the merry moonshine tippling dew; E'en the last lingering fiction of the brain, The church-yard-ghost, is now at rest again; And all these wayward wanderings of my youth Fly Reason's power and shun the light of With fiction then does real joy reside, The tear and smile, that once together rose, man. While thus, of power and fancied empire vain, With various thoughts my mind I entertain; While books, my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize, Pleased with the pride that will not let them please; Sudden I find terrific thoughts arise, And sympathetic sorrow fills my eyes; For, lo! while yet my heart admits the wound, I see the CRITIC army ranged around. And from the crusty critics of those days Implored the feeble tribute of their praise: Remember now the fears that moved you then, And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen. What vent'rous race are ours! what mighty foes Lie waiting all around them to oppose! What treacherous friends betray them to the fight! What dangers threaten them!—yet still they write: A hapless tribe! to every evil born, seem, Exhaled in summer from the rushy stream; Fear chill'd my heart: to one of mortal race, When from the pitying power broke forth a solemn sound :— Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts save The wise from wo, no fortitude the brave; Grief is to man as certain as the grave: Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise, And hope shines dimly through o'erclouded skies; Some drops of comfort on the favour'd fall, But showers of sorrow are the lot of all: Partial to talents, then, shall Heav'n withdraw Th' afflicting rod, or break the general law? Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views, Life's little cares and little pains refuse? But as, of various evils that befal Some feeling heart, that bleeds for the distress'd; Some breast that glows with virtues all divine; Some noble RUTLAND, Misery's friend and thine. Nor say, the Muse's song, the Poet's pen, Happy for men in every age and clime, Stripp'd of their mask, their eares and troubles known, Are visions far less happy than thy own: Blow sportive bladders in the beamy sun, And call them worlds! and bid the greatest show More radiant colours in their worlds below: Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove, And tell them: Such are all the toys they love. THE NEWSPAPER. E quibos, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures, Hi narrata ferunt alio: Mensuraque ficti Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor: Ilie Credulitas, illic temerarius Error, Vanaque Lætitia est, consternatique Timores, Seditioque recens, dubioque auctore Susurri. ÖVID. Metamorph. x11. A TIME like this, a busy, bustling time, Suits ill with writers, very ill with rhyme: Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong, And mightier madness checks the flowing song: Or, should we force the peaceful Muse to wield Her feeble arms amid the furious field, Where party-pens a wordy war maintain, Poor is her anger, and her friendship vain; And oft the foes, who feel her sting, combine, Till serious vengeance pays an idle line; For party-poets are like wasps, who dart Death to themselves, and to their foes but smart. Hard then our fate: if general themes we choose, Neglect awaits the song, and chills the Muse; Or should we sing the subject of the day, To-morrow's wonder puffs our praise away. More blest the bards of that poetic time, When all found readers who could find a rhyme; Green grew the bays on every teeming head, Alas! new charms the wavering many gain, For these, unread, the noblest volumes lie; Let us, with generous scorn, the taste deride, |