The triumph, and the vanity, The rapture of the strifeThe earthquake-shout of Victory, To thee the breath of life; The sword, the sceptre, and that sway All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be The Desolator desolate! The Victor overthrown! That with such change can calmly scope? To die a prince-or live a slave- He who of old would rend the oak, Dream'd not of the rebound; Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke, Alone-how look'd he round?— And darker fate hast found: The Roman, when his burning heart The Spaniard, when the lust of sway A strict accountant of his beads, His dotage trifled well: But thou-from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung Too late thou leav'st the high command To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, In humblest guise have shown. Nor written thus in vain- If thou hadst died as honour dies, To shame the world again- Weigh'd in the balance, hero-dust Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirth And She, proud Austria's mournful flower, How bears her breast the torturing hour? Thou throneless Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, That Corinth's pedagogue hath now Thou Timour! in his captive's cage What thoughts will there be thine, Life will not long confine Or like the thief of fire from heaven, ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be "turn'd from the career of my humour by quibbles quick, and paper-bullets of the brain," I should have complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none personally, who did not commence on the offensive. An author's works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better. As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations to render it more worthy of public perusal. In the first edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted at the request of an ingenious friend of mine, who has now in the press a volume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead: my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner-a determination not to publish with my name any production which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition. With regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author that there can be little difference of opinion in the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here censured, renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the author, that some known and able writer had undertaken their exposure; but Mr. GIFFORD has devoted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the regular physician, a country-practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum, to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming.-As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would, indeed, require a Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the author succeeds in merely “bruising one of the heads of the serpent," though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied. STILL must I hear?-shall hoarse FITZ- The cry is up, and Scribblers are my games GERALD bawl Speed, Pegasus!-ye strains of great and His creaking couplets in a tavern-hall, small, And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews | Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all! Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my I too can scrawl, and once upon a time I pour'd along the town a flood of rhymeA schoolboy - freak, unworthy praise or blame: Muse? Prepare for rhyme-I'll publish, right or wrong: Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.I printed-older children do the same. quill! Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my gray goose-Not that a title's sounding charm can save Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Of brains that labour, big with verse or Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride The lover's solace, and the author's pride: What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise! How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise! Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! Tho' spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me: Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. When Vice triumphant holds her sove- When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail, Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, Such is the force of Wit! but not belong name Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, Tho' now the name is veil'd from public sight. Moved by the great example, I pursue Not seek great JEFFREY's—yet, like him, A man must serve his time to every trade, With just enough of learning to misquote, Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest, And shall we own such judgment? no as soon Seek roses in December, ice in June; To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste; To these, when authors bend in humble awe, And hail their voice as truth, their word as law; While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare; While such are critics, why should I forbear? But yet, so near all modern worthies run, Nor know we when to spare, or where to Our bards and censors are so much alike. Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er The path which POPE and GIFFORD trod If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed; Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied, No fabled Graces, flourish'd side by side, From the same fount their inspiration drew, And, rear'd by Taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew. Then, in this happy isle, a POPE's pure strain A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim, In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly Then CONGREVE's scenes could cheer, or When all to feebler bards resign their place? When taste and reason with those times age; Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, This truth at least let Satire's self allow, No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now: Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, The loaded press beneath her labour groans, | The gibbet or the field prepared to graceAnd printers' devils shake their weary bones; A mighty mixture of the great and base. While SOUTHEY's epics cram the creaking And thinkst thou, ScOTT! by vain conceit shelves, perchance, And LITTLE's lyrics shine in hot-press'd On public taste to foist thy stale romance, twelves. Though MURRAY with his MILLER may Thus saith the Preacher, "nought beneath the sun Is new;" yet still from change to change we run: What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! combine To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? These are the themes that claim our | If still in Berkley Ballads, most uncivil, These are the bards to whom the muse The time has been, when yet the muse was young, When HOMER Swept the lyre and MARO Sung, An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name: The work of each immortal bard appears The single wonder of a thousand years. Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, Without the glory such a strain can give, As even in ruin bids the language live. Not so with us, though minor bards, content, On one great work a life of labour spent: With eagle-pinion soaring to the skies, Behold the ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise; To him let CAMOENS, MILTON, TASSO, yield, Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, The scourge of England, and the boast of France! Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch, Behold her statue placed in Glory's niche; Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, A virgin Phoenix from her ashes risen. Immortal Hero! all thy foes o'ercome, Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence, Illustrious conqueror of common sense! Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales; Tells us strange tales as other travellers do, More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. Oh! Southey, SOUTHEY! cease thy varied song! A Bard may chaunt too often and too long: As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare! A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear. But if, in spite of all the world can say, Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; too. Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May; Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and trouble; And quit his books, for fear of growing double;" Who, both by precept and example, shows So close on each pathetic part he dwells, Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here, To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! Monk, or Bard, Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a churchyard! Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, Thy Muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou! Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, By gibb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred band; Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, To please the females of our modest age, All hail, M. P.! from whose infernal brain Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train; At whose command, "grim women" throng in crowds, And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, With "small grey men," "wild yægers,” and what not, |