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By God the life to Him he loved ; and taken
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear.

Angel. Who shall heal murder ? what is done is done;
Go forth! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds
Unlike the last !

[The ANGEL disappears Adah.

He's gone, let us go forth; I hear our little Enoch cry within our bower.

Cain. Ah ! little knows he what he weeps for!
And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears !
But the four rivers would not cleanse my soul.
Think'st thou my boy will bear to look on me?

Adah. If I thought that he would not, I would-
Cain (interrupting her).

No more of threats : we have had too many of them :
Go to our children; I will follow thee !

Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead;
Let us depart together.

Oh ! thou dead
And everlasting witness ! whose unsinking
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou now art
I know not! but if thou seest what I am,
I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul.-Farewell !
I must not, dare not touch what I have made thee.
I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, drain'd
The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own,
In fondness brotherly and boyish, I
Can never meet thee more, nor even dare
To do that for thee, which thou shouldst have done
For me-compose thy limbs into their grave-
The first grave yet dug for mortality,
But who hath dug that grave? Oh, earth! Oh, earth!
For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I
Give thee back this.-Now for the wilderness.

[ADAH stoops down and kisses the body of ABEL
Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, my brother,
Has been thy lot! Of all who mourn for thee,
I alone must not weep. My office is
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them:
But yet, of all who mourn, none mourn like me,
Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee.
Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee.

Cáin. Eastward from Eden will we take our way: 'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps.

Adah. Lead ! thou shalt be my guide, and may our God
Be thine! Now let us carry forth our children.

Cain. And he who lieth there was childless. I
Have dried the fountain of a gentle race,
Which might have graced his recent marriage couch,
And might have teroper'd this stern blood of mine,
Uniting with our children Abel's offspring!
O Abel!

Adah, Peace be with him !
Lut with me!






“A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel !

I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word."


IT hath been wisely said, that “one fool makes many," and it hath been poetically observed,

“That fools rush in where angels fear to tread."-Pope If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no business, and where he never was before, and never will be again, the following poem would not have been written. It is not impossible that it may be as good as his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, natural or acquired, be worse. The gross flattery, the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance and impious cant, of the poem by the author of “Wat Tyler,” are something so stupendous as to form the sublime of himself-containing the quintessence of his own attributes.

So much for his poem-a word on his preface. In this preface it has pleased the magnanimous Laureate to draw the picture of a supposed “Satanic School,” the which he doth recommend to the notice of the legislature, thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition of those of an informer. If there exists anywhere, excepting in his imagination, such a School, is he not sufficiently armed against it by his own intense vanity? The truth is, that there are certain writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to have “talked of him ; for they laughed con. sumedly."

I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in their individual capacities, have done more good, in the charities of life, to their feilow-creatures in any one year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdities in his whole life, and this is saying a great deal. But I have a few questions to ask.

Istly. Is Mr. Southey the author of “Wat Tyler”?

2ndly. Was he not refused a remedy at law by the highest judge of his beloved England, because it was a blasphemous and seditious publi. cation?

3rdly. Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full Parliament, "a rancorous renegado”?

4thly. Is he not Poet Laureate, with his own lines un Martin the regicide staring him in the face ?

And, 5thly. Putting the four preceding items together, with what con. science dare he call the attention of the laws to the publications of others. be they what they may?

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding; its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch upon the motive, which is neither more nor less than that Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in some recent publications, as he was of yore in the “ Anti-Jacobin” by his present patrons. Hence all this “skimble-scamble stuff” about “Satanic," and so forth. However, it is worthy of him—"qualis ab incepto."

If there is anything obnoxious to the political opinions of a portion of the public in the following poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. He might have written hexameter 5, as he has written everything else, for aught that the writer cared-had they been upon another subject. But to attempt to canonize a monarch, who, whatever were his household virtues, was neither a successful nor a patriot king,–inasmuch as several years of his reign passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing of the aggression upon France,-like all other exaggeration, necessarily begets opposition. In whatever manner he may be spoken of in this new “Vision,” his public career will not be more favourably transmitted by history. Of his private virtues (although a little expensive to the nation) there can be no doubt.

With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, I can only say that I know as much about them, and (as an honest man) have a better right to talk of them, than Robert Southey. I have also treated them more tolerantly. The way in which that poor insane creature, the Jaureate, deals about his judgments in the next world, is like his own judgment in this. If it was not completely ludicrous, it would be some thing worse. I don't think that there is much more to say at present.

QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. P.S.-It is possible that some readers may object, in these objectionable times, to the freedom with which saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse in this “Vision.” But, for precedents upon such points, I must refer them to Fielding's “ Journey from this world to the next,” and of the Visions of myself', the said Quevedo, in Spanish or translated. The reader is also requested to observe, that no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or discussed; that the person of the Deity is carefully withheld from sight, which is more than can be said for the Laureate, who hath thought proper to make Him talk, not “like a school divine," but like the unscholarlike Mr. Southey. The whole action passes on the outside of heaven; and Chaucer's “Wife of Bath," Pulci's “ Morgante Maggiore," Swift's “Tale of a Tub,” and the other works above referred to, are cases in point of the freedom with which saints, &c., may be permitted to converse in works not intended to be serious.

Q. R. *** Mr. Southey, being, as he says, a good Christian and vindictive, threatens, I understand, a reply to this our answer. It is to be hoped that his visionary faculties will in the mean time have acqnired a little more judgment, properly so called : otherwise he will get himself into new dilemmas. These apostate Jacobins furnish rich rejoinders. Let him take a specimen. Mr. Southey laudeth grievously “one Mr. Landor," who cultivates much private renown in the shape of Latin verses; and not long ago, the Poet Laureate dedicated to him, it appeareth, one of his fugitive lyrics upon the strength of a poem called Gebir. Who could suppose, that in this same Gebir the aforesaid Savage Landor (for such is his grim cognomen) putteth into the infernal regions no less a person than the hero of his friend Mr. Southey's heaven,-yea, even George the Third! See also how personal Savage becometh, when he hath a mind. The following is his portrait of our late gracious sovereign :(Prince Gobir having descended into the infernal regions, the shades of his royal ancestora are, at his request, called up to his view; and he exclaims to his ghostly guide)

“ Aroar, what wretch that nearest us? what wretch

Is that with eyebrows white and slanting brow?
Listen ! him yonder, who, bound down supine,
Shrinks yelling froin that sword there, engine-hung,
He too amongst my ancestors? I hate

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The despot, but the dastard I despise.
Was he our countryman ?"

“ Alas, o king!
Tberia bore him, but the breed accurst
Inclement winds blew blighting from north-east.
“ He was a warrior then, nor fear'd the gods ?"
" Gebir, he fear'd the demons, not the gods,
Though them indeed his daily face adored ;
And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives
Squander'd, as stones to exercise a sling,
And the tame cruelty and cold caprice-
Oh madness of mankind I address'd, adored "

Gebir, p. 38

I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of Savagius, wishing to keep the proper veil over them, if his grave but somewhat indiscreet worshipper will suffer it; but certainly these teachers of “ great moral lessons " are apt to be found in strange company.



SAINT PETER sat by the celestial gate:

His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,
So little trouble had been given of late;

Not that the place by any means was full ;
But since the Gallic era “ eighty-eight,"

The devils had ta’en a longer, stronger pull,
And "a pull altogether," as they say
At sea—which drew most souls another way.

The angels all were singing out of tune,

And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,

Or curb a runaway young star or two,
Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon

Broke out of bounds o'or the ethereal blue,
Splitting some planet with its playful tail,
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.


The guardian seraphs had retired on high,

Finding their charges past all care below;
Terrestrial business filld nought in the sky

Save the recording angel's black bureau ;
Who found, indeed, the

facts to multiply
With such rapidity of vice and woe,
That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quins,
And yet was in arrear of human ills.

His business so augmented of late years,

That he was forced, against his will no doubt (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers),

For some resource to turn himself about,
And claim the help of his celestial peers,

To aid him ere he should be quite worn out,
By the increased demand for his remarks ;
Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks,

This was a handsome board--at least for heaven ;

And yet they had even then enough to do,
So many conquerors' cars were daily driven,

So many kingdoms fitted up anew ;
Each day too slew its thousands six or seven,

Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo,
They threw their pens down in divine disgust
The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust.

This by the way! 'tis not mine to record

What angels shrink from: even the very devil
On this occasion his own work abhorr'd,

So surfeited with the infernal revel:
Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword,

It almos quench'd his innate thirst of evil.
(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion-
'Tis, that he has both generals in reversion.)

Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace,

Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont,
And heaven none-they form the tyrant's lease,

With nothing but new names subscribed upon't : 'Twill one day finish : meantime they increase,

“With seven heads and ten horns," and all in frorty Like Saint John's foretold beast ; but ours are born Less formidable in the head than horn.

In the first year of freedom's second dawn

Died George the Third ; although no tyrant, one
Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn

Left him nor mental nor external sun :
A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn,

A worse king never left a realm undone !
He died—but left his subjects still behind,
One half as mad-and t'other no less blind.

He died his death made no great stir on earth;

His burial made some pomp; there was profusion
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth

Of aught but tears-save those shed by collusion.

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