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While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul,
To Holland's, hirelings and to learning's foes. Reforms each error, and refines the whole. *
Yet mark one caution, ere thy next Review
Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, Now to the drama turn-oh! motley sight!
Beware lest blundering Brougham* destroy the sale, What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite !
Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail.” Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent, t. •
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist

And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. Her son, and vanished in a Scottish mistot

Though now, thank Heaven! the Rosciomania's o'er

And full-grown actors are endured once more; Then prosper, Jeffrey! I pertest of the train Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery gain! While British critics suffer scenes like these? Whatever blessing waits a genius Scot,

While Reynolds vents his * dammees !” “poohs!” In double portion swells thy glorious lot;

and“ zounds!” For thee Edina culls her evening sweets,

And common-place and common sense confounds? And showers their odors on thy candid sheets, While Kenny's “World”-ah! where is Kenny's Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere

This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear.s | Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit; $
Lo! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamor'd grown, And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone; A tragedy complete in all but words ? ||
And, too unjust to other Pictish men,

Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage, Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen!

The degradation of our vaunted stage!

Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone?
Illustrious Holland! || hard would be his lot, Have we no living bard of merit ?-none !
His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot! |Awake, George Colman! Cumberland, awake!
Holland, with Henry Petty at his back,

Ring th’alarum bell! let folly quake!
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen.
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, Let Comedy assume her throne again;
Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse! Abjure the mummery of German schools;
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof

Leave new Pizarros to translating fools;
Shall Grub street dine, while duns are kept aloof.

Give, as thy last memorial to the age, See honest Hallam lay aside his fork,

One classic drama, and reform the stage. Resume his pen, review his Lordship’s work, Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, And, grateful for the dainties on his plate,

Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread ? | Declare his lordship can at least translate !**

On those shall Farce display buffoon’ry's mask, Dunedin! view thy children with delight,

And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? They write for food-and feed because they write; Shall sapient managers new scenes produce And lest, when heated with the unusual grape, From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose, Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, And tinge with red the female reader's cheek,

On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? My lady skims the cream of each critique; Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim

The rival candidates for Attic fame! * Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the Edinburgh Review, throughout In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, the article concerning Don Pedro de Cevallos, has displayed more politics Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. than policy; many of the worthy burgesses of Edingburgh being so incensed

And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise, at the infamous principles it evinces, as to have withdrawn their subsbrip tions. *

For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays It seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as I supposerl, but a Borderer, Renown'd alike; whose genius ne'er confines and his name is pronounced Broom, from Trent to Tay :-So he it.

Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs; ** tlought to apologize to the worthy deities for introducing a new goddess with short petticoats to their notice : but alas ! what was to be done? I could Nor sleeps with “Sleeping Beauties,” but anon not say Caledonia's genius, it being well known there is no such genius to be In five facetious acts comes thundering on, toute found from Clackmannan to Cathness; yet without supernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved ? The national "kelpies" are too unpoetical, and the “brownies," and “gude neighbors" (spirits of a good dispostion) refused to extricate him. A goddless, therefore, has been called for the purpose ; 1

• Certain it is, her ladyship ia suspected of havir. g displayed her matchica and great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only communi- wit in the Edinbur

wit in the Edinburgh Review. However that may be, we know, from good aation he ever held, or is likely to hold, with any thing heavenly.

authority, that the manuscripts are submitted to her perusalno doubt, for cor Then prosper, Jeffrey! &C.- This paragraph was introduced in the fifth

rection. wicion.

† In the melo-drama of Tekeli, that hervic prince is clapt into a barrel on $ See the color of the back binding of the Edingburgh Review.

the stage ; a new asylum for distressed heroes.

All these are favorite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, and prominent in bin Illustrious Holland! hard would be his lot,

comedies, living and defunct. His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot !

Ś “While Kenny's "World,”-ah! where is Kenny's wit ?Bad enough, and on mistaken grounds too.--MS. note by Lord Byron.

Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit." 816.

Thus corrected in the fifth edition. The lines were originally printed, I And, grateful for the dainties, &C.-In all editions before the fifth, this

6. While Kenny's “ World,” just suffered to proceed, couplet was printed,

Proclaims the audience very kind indeed.” "And grateful to the founder of the feaεt,

|| Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury-lane theatre, stripped the Declare his landlord can translate at least."

tragedy of Bondyca of the dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle ** Lord Holland has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega, inserted of Caractacus.-Was this worthy of his sire, or of himself? in his life of the author? both are bepraised by his disinterested guests.

T Siddons lives to tread. n all editions previous to the fifth, « Kemblo

lives to tread." • Their subscriptions.Here followed in the first edition, “ The name of ** Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury-lane theatremas ents personage is pronounced Broom in the south, but the truly northern and such, Mr. Skeffington is much indebted to him. musical pronunciation is Brough-am, in two syllables."

| ft Mr. Skeffington is the illustrious author of the "Sleeping Beauty;" The conclusion of the note was substitute for the above in the second and some comedies, particularly " Maills and Bachelors:" Baculaurii ben. mtition.

culo magis quam lauro digni.

While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene, The song from Italy, the step from France,
Stares,* wondering what the devil it can mean; The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance,
But as some hands applaud, a venal few!

The smile of beauty and the flush of wine, [binc. Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords com

Each to his humor-Comus all allows; Such are we now-ah! wherefore should we turn Champagne, dice, music, or your neighbor's spouse. To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ?

Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade! Degen’rate Britons! are ye dead to shame, Of piteous ruin, which yourselves have made; Or, kind to dullness, do you fear to blame? In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, Well may the nobles of our present race

Nor think of poverty, except “en masque," Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face;

When for the night some lately titled ass Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons,

Appears the beggar which his grandsire was. And worship Catalina's pantaloons,t

The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, Since their own drama yields no fairer trace The audience take their turn upon the floor; Of wit than puns, of humor than grimace.

Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep,

Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap; Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art

The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, To soften manners, but corrupt the heart,

The last display the free unfetter'd limb! Pour her exotic follies o'er the town,

Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair To sanction vice, and hunt decorum down :

With art the charms which nature could not spare ; Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes,

These after husbands wing their eager flight,
And bless the promise which his form displays;

Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night
While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks
Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes:

Oh! blest retreats of infamy and case,
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle

Where, all forgotten but the power to please, Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil;

Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow,

Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught; Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe;

There the blithe youngster, just returu'd from Spain, Collini trill her love-inspiring song,

Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main; Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng! The jovia

The jovial caster's set, and seven 's the nick, Wheti not your scythe, suppressors of our vice!

Or-done !-a thousand on the coming trick ! Reforming saints ! too delicately nice!

If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save,

And all your hope or wish is to expire, No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave;

Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life, And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display

And, kinder still, two Pagets for your wife:*
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day.

Fit consummation of an earthly race
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace;

While none but menials o'er the bed of death, $Or hail at once the patron and the pile

Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath; Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle!||

Traduced by liars, and forgot by all,
Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane,

The mangled victim of a drunken brawl,
Spreads wide her portals for the motley train,
Behold the new Petronius of the day,

To live like Clodius,t and like Falklandi fall. Our arbiter of pleasure and of play!

Truth! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir,

To drive this pestilence from out the land. The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre,

Even I-least thinking of a thoughtless throng,

Just skill’d to know the right and choose the wrong, * “ Stares ;" first edition, “keeps."

Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost, | Naldi and Catalina require little notice for the visage of the one, and the mlary of the other, will enable is long to recollect these amusing vagabonds.

To fight my course through passion's countless host, $ Besides, we are still black and blue from the squeeze on the first night of the Whom

sure's flow'ry way lanty's appearance in trousers.

Has lured in turn, and all have led astrayWhet not your scythe.-From Lord Byron's correction in 1816. In the

E’en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel former editions, “ Raise not your, scythe." against the six concluding lines of this paragaph the author has written“Good.”

Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal, Or hail at once the patron and the pile. The foliowing seventy lines to Although some kind, censorious friend will say, " as for the smaller fry," &c., were first inserted in the second edition.

“What art thou better, meddling fool,|| than they?| To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a man, I beg leave to state, that it is the institution, and not the duke of that name, which is here alluded to. A gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lost Topo Passets for your wife. Thus altered in the finth edition. The in the Argyle Rooms several thousand pounds at backgammon. * It is but

out original reading wis, " a Paget for your wife.Justice to the managers in this instance to say, that some degree of disapproba

Mutato noinene de te tion was manifested ; but why are the implements of gaming allowed in a place

Fabula narratur. revoted to the society of both sexes? A pleasant thing for the wives or + I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night I beheld him daughters of those who are blest or curseil with such connections, to hear the

the presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride of hospitality; on Wednes billiard-tables rattling in one room, and the dice in another! That this is the

day morning, at three o'clock, I saw stretched before me all that rerr.ained on casc I myself can testisy, as a late worthy member of an institution which ma

courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a gallant and successful kerially affects the morals of the higher orders, while the lower may not even officer: his faults were the faults of a sailor-mas such, Britons will forgive nove to the sound of a labor and fiddle without a chance of indictment for him

| him. He died like a brave min in a better cause : for had he fallen in liko riotous behavior.

manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just appointed, his last 9 Petronius "Arbiter elegantiarum” to Nero, “and a very pretty fellow in

inoments would have been held up by his countrymen as an example to his day," as Mr. Congreve's “Old Bachelor" saith of Hannibal.

succeeding heroes.

S To fight my course through passion's count'ess host.Yes : and a • True. It was Billy

W y who lost the money. I knew him, and was precious chase they led me.--MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. a subscriber to the Argyle at the time of the event.---MS. note by Lord Byron. l What art thou better, meddling fool ?--Fool enough, certainly thco, 1816.

Tand no wiser since-MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816.

Y pa

And every brother rake will smile to see

Yes ! doff that covering, where morocco shines, That miracle, a moralist in me.

And hang a calf-skin* on those recreant lines. No matter when some bard in virtue strong, Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song, With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead, Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice Who daily scribble for your daily bread; Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice;

With you I war not: Gifford's heavy hand
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply.

On “all the talents” vent your venal spleen;
Want is your plea, let pity be your screen.

Let monodies on Fox regale your crew,
As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals

And Melville's Mantlet prove a blanket too!
From silly Hafiz* up to simple Bowles,
Why should we call them from their dark abode,

One common Lethe waits each hapless bard,
In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road ?

And, peace be with you ! 'tis your best rewari. Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare

Such damning fame as Dunciads only give

Could bid your lines beyond a morning live ; To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square ?

But now at once your fleeting labors close, If things of ton their harmless lays indite,

With names of greater note in blest repose. Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight,

Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid
What harm ? In spite of every critic elf,

The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade,
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself;
Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try,

Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, And live in prologues, though his dramas die;

Leave wondering comprehension far behind. I

Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, Lords too are bards, such things at tiines befall,

Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still; And 'tis some praise in peers to write at all.

Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times,

Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells; Ah! who would take their titles with their rhymes?t

And Merry's metaphors appear anew,
Roscommon! Sheffield! with your spirits fled,

Chain'd to the signature of 0. P. Qoll
No future laurels deck a noble head;
INo muse will cheer, with renovating smile,

q When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, The parylytic puling of Carlisle.

Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, The puny schoolboy and his early lay

Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, Men pardon, if his folly's pass away,

St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse, But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse,

Heavens! how the vulgar stare ! how crowds apWhose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse ?

plaud ! What heterogenous honors deck the peer!

How ladies read, and literati laud ! Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer !S

If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age,

'Tis sheer ill-nature-don't the world know best? His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage, But managers for once cried, “Hold, enough!"

Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff.

And Capel Lofft** declares 'tis quite sublime.

Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade! Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh,

Swains ! quit the plough, resign the useless spade! And case his volumes in congenial calf;

Lo! Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far,

Gifford was born beneath an adverse star, • What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, Hafiz, could he Forsook the labors of a servile state, rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, where he reposes with Ferdousi Stemm'd the rude storm and triumph'd over fate : and Sadi, the oriental Homer and Catullus, and behold his name assumed by one Stott of Dromore, the most impudent and execrable of literary poachers for the daily prints.

" Doff that lion's hide, † Here folluwed in the original manuscript,

And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs."
On one alone Apollo deigns to smile,

Shak. King John.
And crowns a new Roscommon in Curlisle.

Lord Carlisle's works, most resplendently bound, form a conspicuoun

ornament to his bookshelves: The provocation alluded to in Lord Byron's note, page 262, took place

" The rest is all but leather and prunella." while the satire was in press. These lines were erased in consequence, and + Melville's Mantle, "a parody on " Elijah's Mantle", all those down to; " With you, ye Druids," &c., substituted in their place.

their place. This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew K- , seems to The following additional lines were written, but suppressed before publication :

be a follower of the Della Crusca school, and has published two volumes of In these our :imes, with claily wonders big,

very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times go; besides sundry novels in A lettered peer is like a lettered pig;

the style of the first edition of the Monk. Both know their alphabet, but who, from thence,

To the above, Lord Byron added, in 1816: "She since married the Infers that peers or pigs have manly sense?

Morning Post-an exceeding good match-and is since dead which in Still less that such should woo the graceful nine ?

better." Parnassus was not made for lords and swine.

$ From this line the presage in the first edition stood thus :

Though Bell has lost his nightingales and owls,
No muse will cheer, with renovating smile,

Matilda snivels still, and Hafiz howls,
The paralytic puling of Carlisle.

And Crusca's spirit, rising from the dead,
This couplet stood in the first edition,

Revives in Laura, Quiz, and X. Y. Z.

These are the signatures of various worthies who figure in the poetical “ Nor e'en a hackney'd muse vill deign to smile

departments of the newspapers. On minor Byron, or mature Carlisle."

i When some brisk youth, &C.-The following paragraph was inserted in Opposite these lines on Lord Carlisle, Lord Byron has written, in the the rocond edition. copy which he perused in 1816, “Wrong also the provocation was not This was meant for poor Blackett, who was then patronized by A. J. B., Kufficient to justify the acerbity."

. but that I did not know, or this would not have been written, at lean I think $ The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen-penny pamphlet not. MS. nole by Lord Byron. 1816. on the state of the stage, and offers his plan of building a new theatre. It is " Capel Lofft, Esq., the Miecenas of shoemakers, and preface-writer-gen to be hoped his lordship will be permitte I to bring forward any thing for the eral to distressed versemen; a kind of gratis accoucheur to those who wirb k Hageo-exccpt his own trageu •s.

! be delivered of rhyme, but do not know how to bring forth.

I hen why no more ? if Phæbus smile on you, Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path, Bloomfield! why not on brother Nathan too ?* And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath ? Him too the mania, not the muse has seized; | Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, Not inspiration, but a mind diseased :

Eternal beacons of consummate crime? And now no boor can seek his last abode,

Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claim'd, No common be enclosed, without an ode.

Make bad men better, or at least ashamed.
Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smile
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle,

Unhappy White !* while life was in its spring, Let poesy go forth, pervade the whole,

And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing,

+The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, Which else had sounded an immortal lay. Compose at once a slipper and a song;

Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, So shall the fair your handiwork peruse ;

When Science' self destroyed her favorite son; Your sonnets sure shall please-perhaps your shocs. Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, May Moorlandt weavers boast Pindaric skill, She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes,

And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: And pay for poems-when they pay for coats. So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Neglected genius! let me turn to you.

View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, Come forth, oh Campbell! I give thy talents scope; And wing'd the shaft that quiverd in his heart: Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ?

Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, And thou, melodious Rogers !s rise at last,

He nursed the pinion which impell’d the steel; Recall the pleasing memory of the past;

While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire,

Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre ; Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,

There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, Assert thy country's honor and thine own.

That splendid lies are all the poet's praise; What! must deserted Poesy still weep

That strain’d invention, ever on the wing, Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep? Alone impels the modern bard to sing : Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns,

from his cold bier she turns, 'Tis true, that all who rhyme, nay, all who write, To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns! Shrink from that fatal word to genius-trite; No! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious Yet 'Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, The race who rhyme from folly, or for food, (brood, And decorate the verse herself inspires : Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast,

This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbei attest; Who least affecting, still affect the most:

Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. Feel as they write, and write but as they feel ŞAnd here let Sheel and genius find a place, Bear witness Gifford, Sotheby, Macneil.||

Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace;

To guide whose hand the sister arts combine, 6 Why slumbers Gifford ?once was ask'd in vain; 1 and trace the poet's or the painter's line; Why slumbers Gifford ? let us ask again.

Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow, Are there no follies for his pen to purge?

Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow:
Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge? While honors, doubly merited, attend
Are there no sins for satire's bard to greet?

The poet's rival, but the painter's friend.
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ?

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower • See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever he or any one else. Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour: chooses to call it, on the enclosure of “Honington Green."

Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd + Vide " Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of Staffordshire.”

afar, * It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the reader the authors of “The Pleasures of Memory” and “The Pleasures of Hope," the most | The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, beautiful didactic poems in our language, if we except Pope's “Essay on The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, Man:" but so many poetasters have started up, that even the names of Her piace of birth. her own Achaian shore. Campbell and Rogers are become strange.

Beneath this note Lord Byron has written, in the copy of this satire which ho read in 1816, « Pretty Miss Jacqueline

• Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October, 1806, in consequence Had a nose aquiline,

of too inuch exertion in the pursuit of studies which would have matured , Anni would nssert rude

mind which disease and poverty could not inapair, and which death itsell l'hings of Miss Gertrude,

destroyed rather than subulueci. His poems abound in such beauties as mus While Mr. Marmion

impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was alotted Led a great army on,

to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was Making Kehama look

destined to assume. Like a fierce Mameluke."

The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, Melodiour Rogers.-Rogers has not fulfilled the promise of his first

Which else had sounded an immorlal lay. pooms, but has still very great merit.--MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816.

So altered by Lord Byron on reperusing the satire in 1816. In former adl

Se 1 Gifford, author of the Baviad and Mæviad, the first satires of the day, tions, the lines stood. and translator of Juvenal. Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon and Virgil's Georgics, and author

The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair af “ Saul,” an epic poem.

Has sought the grave, to slecp for ever there." Macueil, whose poems are deservedly popular, particularly “Scotland's

Crabbe.--I consider Crabbe and Coleridge as the first of these tinsen in Scaith, or the Ways of War," of which ten thousand copies were sold in noiut of power and genius.--MS. note by Lord Buron. 1816. one month.

$ And here let Shee, &c.--The ensuing twenty-two lines were inverted in | Mr. Gifford promised publicly that the Baviad and Mæviad should not the second edition. be his last original works : let him remember, “Mox in reluctantes drit- Mr. Shee, author of : Rhyrnes on Art," and " Element of Arts sones."


But doubly blest is he whose heart expands Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine
With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands; And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ,
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by,

Let Stott, Carlisle,* Matilda and the rest
And views their remnants with a poet's eye! Of Grubb-street and of Grosvenor-place the best,
Wright!* 'twas thy happy lot at once to view Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain,
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too; Or Common Sense assert her rights again.
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise,
To hail the land of gods and godlike men.

Should leave to humbler bards ignoble lays;

Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, And you, associate bards !t who snatch'd to light Demand a hallow'd harp-that harp is thine. Those gems too long withheld from modern sight; Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield Whose mingling tastes combined to cull the wreath The glorious record of some nobler field, Where Attic flowers Aonian odors breathe,

Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, And all their renovated fragrance flung,

Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man? To grace the beauties of your native tongue:

Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse

1*For Sherwood's outlaw tales of Robin Hood ? The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse,

Scotland! still proudly claim thy native bard, Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone:

And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own.

Yet not with thee alone his name should live,

But own the vast renown a world can give; Let these or such as these, with just applause,

Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more,

And tell the tale of what she was before ; But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime,

To future times her future fame recall,
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme,

And save her glory, though his country fall.
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear,
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear;
In show the simple lyre could once surpass,

*Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, But now, worn down, appear in native brass;

To conquer ages and with time to cope ? While all his train of hovering sylphs around

New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, Evaporate in similes and sound:

And other victors' fill the applauding skies; Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die:

A few brief generations fleet along, False glare attracts, but more offends the eye. I

Whose sons forget the poet and his song ;

E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce may Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop,

claim The meanest object of the lowly group,

The transient mention of a dubious name! Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast, Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Lloyd:$

Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last; Let them but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach

And glory like the phonix midst her fires,ll
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach:

Exhales her odors, blazes, and expires.
The native genius with their being given
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven.

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons,

Expert in science, more expert at puns ?
And thou, too, Scott!|| resign o minstrels rude
The wilder Slogan of a border feud :

* It may be asked why I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my guardian Let others spin the meagre lines for hire;

and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few yean

ago ?The guardianship was nominal, at least as far as I have been Enough for genius if itself inspire!

discover; the relationship I cannot help, and am very sorry for it; but as hin Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, lordship seemed to forget it on a very essential occasion to me, I shall not Prolific every spring, be too profuse;

burden my memory with the recollection. I do not think that personal TLet simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse,

differences sanction the unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler ; but I see

no reason why they should act as a preventive when the author, noble or And brother Coleridge lull the babes at nurse; ignoble, has, for a series of years, beguiled a “discerning public" (as the Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most,

advertisements have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial

nonsense. Besides, I do not step aside to vituperate the earl: no-his works To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost: [Moore,

come fairly in review with those of other patrician literati. If, before I escaped **Let Moore still sigh; let Strangford steal from from my teens, I said any thing in favor of his lordship's paper books, it was And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yore; in the way of dutiful dedication, and more from the advice of others than my

own judgment, and I seize the first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave,

recantation. I have heard that some persons conceive me to be under And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave;

obligations to Lord Carlisle : if so, I shall be most particularly happy to learn what they are, and when conferred, that thev may be duly appreciated and

publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly advanced as an opinion on * Mr. Wright, late consul-general for the Seven Islands, is author of a his printed things, I am prepared to support, if necessary, by quotations very beautiful poem just published: it is entitled “Horæ lonicæ," and is from elegies, odes, eulogies, episodes, and certain facecious and dainty tragedescriptive of the islet and the adjacent coast of Greece.

dies bearing his name and mark: | The translators of the Anthology, Bland and Merivale, have since

" What can ennoble knaves, or fools or cowards ? published separate poems, which evince genius that only requires opportunity

Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards." to attain eminence.

So says Pope. Amen! I The neglect of the " Botanic Garden" is some proof of returning taste; Much too savage, whatever the foundation might be.--MS. note by Lord "he scenery is its sole recommendation.

Byron. 1816. § Messrs. Lambe and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of Southey and Co. This note first appeared in the second edition.

By the by, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem his hero or heroine will † In the first edition, “ Outlaw'd Sherwood's." le less addicted to “Gramarye,' and more to grammar, than the Lady of $ Yet what avails, &c.The following twelve lines were introduced in the Lay and her bravo, William of Deloraine.

the second edition. TAgainst inis passage on Wordsworth, and the following line on Cole- $ "Tollere humo, victorque viram volitare per ora." nid go, Lord Byron has written, " unjust."

Virgil. ** Let Moore still sigh.--Fifth edition. The original reading was, “ Let Like the phænir midst her fires.--The devil take that phoenix ! Hoe Moore b; lewd."

came it there? MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816.

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