Pope,
Dryden.

And he must needs mount nearer to the moon,
Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon?

"Pedlars," and "Boats," and "Waggons!" O!
ye shades

Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this?
That trash of such sort not alone evades

Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss
Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss-
The "little boat-man" and his "Peter Bell"
Can sneer at him who drew “Achitophel !"

Byron.

IN twice five years "the greatest living poet,"
Like to the champion in the fisty ring,
Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it,
Although 'tis an imaginary thing.
Even I-albeit I'm sure I did not know it,

Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king,-
Was reckon'd a considerable time,

The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme.

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero

My Leipsic, and my Mount St. Jean seems
Cain ;

"La Belle Alliance" of dunces down at zero,
Now that the Lion's fallen, may rise again;

But I will fall at least as fell my hero;

Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign;
Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go,
With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe.

Scott.
Moore.
Campbell.

Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Camp

bell

Before and after; but now grown more holy, The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble

With poets almost Clergymen, or wholly.

Then there's my gentle Euphues; who, they say
Sets up for being a sort of moral me;
He'll find it rather difficult some day

To turn out both, or either it may be.
Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway;
And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three;
And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian "Savage Landor"
Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander.

John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique
Just as he really promised something great,
If not intelligible, without Greek

Contrived to talk about the gods of late,
Much as they might have been supposed to speak.
Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate;

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

Leigh
Hunt.

Coleridge.
Words-
worth.
Landor.
Southey.

Keats.

HAVING wound up with this sublime comparison,
Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative,
And as my friend Scott says, "I sound my

warison; "

Scott, the superlative of my comparative

Scott.

Scott, who can paint your Christian Knight or
Saracen,

Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would
share it, if

There had not been one Shakespeare and Voltaire,
Of one or both of whom he seems the heir.

MOORE.

From Intercepted Letters.

SHOULD

[1813

Scott.

you feel any touch of poetical glow, We've a scheme to suggest-Mr. Sc-tt, you must

know,

(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the
Row)

Having quitted the Borders, to seek new renown,
Is coming, by long Quarto stages, to Town;

And beginning with Rokeby (the job's sure to
pay)

Means to do all the gentlemen's seats on the way. Now the scheme is (though none of our hackneys can beat him,

To start a fresh poet through Highgate to meet

him;

Who by means of quick proofs-no revises-long
coaches-

May do a few Villas, before Sc-tt approaches.
Indeed, if our Pegasus be not curst shabby,

He'll reach, without found'ring, at least Woburn

Abbey.

Such, Sir, is our plan-if you're up to the freak, 'Tis a match! and we'll put you in training next week.

Reflections before reading Lord Byron's
Memoirs, written by himself. [1819

LET me, a moment-ere with fear and hope
Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope-
As one in fairy tale, to whom the key

Of some enchanter's secret halls is given,
Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly,

If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heavenLet me, a moment, think what thousands live O'er the wide earth this instant, who would give, Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow Over these precious leaves, as I do now.

How all who know-and where is he unknown?
To what far region have his songs not flown,
Like Psaphon's birds, speaking their master's

name,

In every language, syllabled by Fame?

How all, who've felt the various spells combined
Within the circle of that master-mind,-

Like spells, derived from many a star, and met
Together in some wondrous amulet,—

Would burn to know when first the Light awoke
In his young soul-and if the gleams that broke
From that Aurora of his genius, raised

Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blazed; Would love to trace the unfolding of that power, Which hath grown ampler, grander, every hour;

Q

And feel, in watching o'er his first advance,

As did the Egyptian traveller, when he stood By the young Nile, and fathom'd with his lance

The first small fountains of that mighty flood.

They, too, who, 'mid the scornful thoughts that dwell

In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,

As if the Star of Bitterness, which fell

On earth, of old, had touch'd them with its beams

Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate, From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate; And which, even now, struck as it is with blight, Comes out, at times, in Love's own native light; How gladly all, who've watch'd these struggling

rays

Of a bright, ruin'd spirit through his lays,
Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,
What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven
That noble nature into cold eclipse;

Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven,
And born, not only to surprise, but cheer
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,
Is now so quench'd, that of its grandeur lasts
Nought, but the wide, cold shadow which it casts!

Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change

Of scene and clime-the adventures bold and

strange

The griefs-the frailties, but too frankly told—
The loves, the feuds, thy pages may unfold,

If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks