And thou, too, SCOTT* ! resign to minstrels rude,
The wilder Slogan of a Border feud:

Let others spin their meagre lines for hire:
Enough for Genius if itself inspire!

Let SOUTHEY sing, altho' his teeming muse,
Prolific every spring, be too profuse;

Let simple WORDSWORTH chime his childish verse,
And brother COLERIDGE lull the babe at nurse;
Let Spectre-mongering LEWIS aim, at most,
To rouse the Galleries, or to raise a ghost;
Let MOORE be lewd; let STRANGFORD steal from

MOORE,

900

And swear that CAMOENS sang such notes of yore; Let HAYLEY hobble on; MONTGOMERY rave;

And godly GRAHAME chaunt a stupid stave;

*

By the bye, I hope that in Mr. SCOTT's next poem, his hero or heroine will be less addicted to " Gramarye," and more to Grammar, than the Lady of the Lay, and her Bravo WILLIAM of DELORAINE.

Let sonneteering BOWLES his strains refine;
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line;
Let STOTT, CARLISLE*, MATILDA, and the rest
Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-place the best,

* It may be asked why I have censured the Earl of CARLISLE, my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few years ago. The guardianship was nominal, at least as far as I have been able to discover; the relationship I cannot help, and am very sorry for it; but as his Lordship seemed to forget it on a very essential occasion to me, I shall not burthen my memory with the recollection. I do not think that personal 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 ignoble, has for a series of years, beguiled a cerning public" (as the advertisements have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial nonsense. Besides I do not step aside to vituperate the Earl; no-his works come fairly in review with those of other Patrician Literati. If, before I escaped from my teens, I said any thing in favour of his Lordship's paper books, it was 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

"dis

910

Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain,
Or common sense assert her rights again;
But Thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise,
Shouldst leave to humbler Bards ignoble lays:
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine,
Demand a hallowed harp-that harp is thine.
Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield
The glorious record of some nobler field,
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan,
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man?

sincere recantation. I have heard that some persons conceive me to be under obligations to Lord CARLISLE: if so, I shall be most particularly happy to learn what they are, and when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated, and publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly advanced as an opinion on his printed things, I am prepared to support if necessary, by quotations from Elegies, Eulogies, Odes, Episodes, and certain facetious and dainty tragedies bearing his name and mark:

"What can ennoble knaves, or fools, or cowards?
"Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards!”

Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food

4

For outlawed SHERWOOD's tales of ROBIN HOOD?920
Scotland! still proudly claim thy native. Bard,
And be thy praise his first, his best reward!
Yet not with thee alone his name should live,
But own the vast renown a world can give;
Be known perchance, when Albion is no more,
And tell the tale of what she was before;
To future times her faded fame recal,

And save her glory, though his country fall.

930

Yet what avails the sanguine Poet's hope? To conquer ages, and with time to cope! New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, And other Victors* fill the applauding skies; A few brief generations fleet along, Whose sons forget the Poet and his song:

*"Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ora.

VIRGIL

E'en now, what once-loved Minstrels scarce may

claim

The transient mention of a dubious name!

When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest

blast,

Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last, And glory, like the Phoenix midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

940

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, Expert in science, more expert at puns? Shall these approach the Muse? ah no! she flies, And even spurns the great Seatonian prize, Though Printers condescend the press to soil With rhyme by HOARE, and epic blank by HOYLE: Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, Requires no sacred theme to bid us list*.

*The "Games of HOYLE," well known to the votaries of Whist, Chess, &c. are not to be superseded by the vagaries of his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, as expressly stated in the advertisement, all the "Plagues of Egypt."