And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse?

*IMITATION.

"Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne reponam

"Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri?

JUVENAL, SATIRE 1.

Mr. FITZGERALD, facetiously termed by COBBETT the "Small Beer Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the " Literary Fund;" not content with writing, he spouts in person after the company have imbibed a reasonable quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the operation.

A

Prepare for rhyme I'll publish, right or wrong: Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my grey goose

quill!

.10:

Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen foredoomed to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose,
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!
Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside but now assumed again,

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Our task complete, like Hamet's* shall be free;
Tho' spurned by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day, no common theme,
No Eastern vision, no distempered dream
Inspires-our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, And men through life her willing slaves obey; When folly,frequent harbinger of crime, Unfolds her motley store to suit the time;

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When Knaves and Fools combined o'er all prevail, When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail, E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,

pen

in

CID HAMET BENENGELI promises repose to his the last chapter of DON QUIXOTE. Oh! that our voluminous gentry would follow the example of CID HAMET BENENGELI.

A 2

More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,

And shrink from Ridicule though not from Law.

Such is the force of Wit! but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song;

The royal vices of our age demand

A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.

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Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry
is up, and scribblers are my game:
Speed Pegasus!-ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy !-have at you all!

I, too, can crawl, and once upon a time

I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A school-boy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
I printed-older children do the same.
'Tis pleasant sure to see one's name in print;
A Book's a Book, altho' there's nothing in't.

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