Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub

Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass
The bard who soars to elegize an ass.
How well the subject suits his noble mind,
'A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind.'

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 gibbering 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 yagers,' and what not,
To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott;
Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please,
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease;
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell,
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell.

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire,

With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd, Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hush'd?

'Tis Little! young Catullus of his day,
As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay!
Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just,
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns;
From grosser incense with disgust she turns:
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er,
She bids thee 'mend thy line and sin no more.'

For thee, translator of the tinsel song,
To whom such glittering ornaments belong,
Hibernian Strangford! with thine eyes of blue,†
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue,
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss admires,
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires,
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense,
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence.
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place,
By dressing Camoëns in a suit of lace?
Mend, Strangford! mend thy morals and thy taste;
Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste;
Cease to deceive; thy pilfer'd harp restore,
Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore.

In many marble-cover'd volumes view Hayley, in vain attempting something new;

• 'For every one knows little Matt's an M.P-See a Poem to Mr. Lewis, in the Statesman, supposed to be written by Mr. Jekyll.

The reader who may wish for an explanation of this, may refer to Strangford's Camoëns, p. 127, note to page 56, or to the last page of the Edinburgh Review, of Strangford's Camoëns.

It is also to be remarked, that the things given to the public as Poems of Camoëns, are no more to be found in the original Portuguese than in the Song of Solomon.

Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme,

Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, 'gainst time,
His style in youth or age is still the same,
For ever feeble and for ever tame.
Triumphant first see Temper's Triumphs shine!
At least I'm sure they triumph'd over mine.
Of Music's Triumphs all who read may swear,
That luckless music never triumph'd there.*

Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward
On dull devotion-Lo! the Sabbath bard,
Sepulchral Grahame, pours his notes sublime
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme;
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke,
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch;
And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms,
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.†

Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings
A thousand visions of a thousand things,
And shows, dissolved in thine own melting tears,
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers.
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles!
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls?
Whether in sighing winds thou seek'st relief,
Or consolation in a yellow leaf;
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells;
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend
In every chime that jingled from Ostend;
Ah! how much juster were thy muse's hap,
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap!
Delightful Bowles! still blessing and still blest,
All love thy strain, but children like it best.
'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moral song,
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng!
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears,
Ere miss as yet completes her infant years;
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain-
She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain,
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine;
'Awake a louder and a loftier strain,'
Such as none heard before, or will again!
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood,
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud,

etc.

Hayley's two most notorious verse productions are Triumphs of Temper and Triumphs of Music. He has also written much comedy in rhyme, epistles, etc. As he is rather an elegant writer of notes and biography, let us recommend Pope's advice to Wycherley to Mr. H.'s consideration, viz. to convert his poetry into prose,' which may easily be done by taking away the final syllable of each couplet.

+ Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of cant, under the name of Sabbath Walks and Biblical Pictures.

1 See Bowles's Sonnets, etc.-Sonnet to Oxford, and Stanzas on hearing the Bells of Ostend.

Awake a louder, etc. etc., is the first line in Bowles's Spirit of Discovery, a very spirited and pretty dwarf epic. Among other exquisite lines we have the following: A kiss

Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet Here heard; they trembled even as if the power,' etc. That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss, very much astonished, as well they might be, at such a phenomenon.

By more or less, are sung in every book,
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.
Nor this alone; but, pausing on the road,
The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ;*

And gravely tells-attend, each beauteous miss!-
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss.
Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell,
Stick to thy sonnets, man!-at least they sell.
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe,
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe;
If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd,
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered;
If Pope, whose fame and genius from the first
Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst,
Do thou essay; each fault, each failing scan;
The first of poets was, alas! but man.
Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl,
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll;+
Let all the scandals of a former age
Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page;
Affect a candour which thou canst not feel,
Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal;

Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire,
And do from hate what Mallet did for hire.
Oh! hadst thou lived in that congenial time,
To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhyme ;
Throng'd with the rest around his living head,
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead;
A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains,
And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains.

Another epic! who inflicts again
More books of blank upon the sons of men?
Baotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast,
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast,
And sends his goods to market-all alive!
Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five!
Fresh fish from Helicon! who'll buy? who'll buy?
The precious bargain's cheap-in faith, not I.
Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight,
Too much o'er bowls of rack prolong the night!
If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain,
And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain.
In him an author's luckless lot behold,
Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold.
Oh, Amos Cottle !-Phoebus! what a name
To fill the speaking trump of future fame !--

The episode here alluded to is the story of 'Robert a Machin' and Anna d'Arfet,' a pair of constant lovers, who performed the kiss above mentioned, that startled the woods of Madeira.

Oh, Amos Cottle! for a moment think
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink!
When thus devoted to poetic dreams,
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams?
Oh, pen perverted! paper misapplied!
Had Cottle still adorn'd the counter's side,
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils,
Been taught to make the paper which he soils,
Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb,
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep
Rolls the huge rock, whose moti ons ne'er may sleep.
So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves
Dull Maurice all his granite weight of leaves :†
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain!

The petrifactions of a plodding brain,

That ere they reach the top fall lumbering back again.

With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale,

Lo! sad Alcæus wanders down the vale;
Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd at
last,

His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast:
Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales,
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails!
O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep;
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep!

Yet, say why should the bard at once resign
His claim to favour from the sacred Nine?
For ever startled by the mingled howl
Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl;
A coward brood, which mangle as they prey,
By hellish instinct all that cross their way;
Aged or young, the living or the dead;
No mercy find-these harpies must be fed.
Why do the injured unresisting yield
The calm possession of their native field?
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat,
Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat

Health to immortal Jeffrey! once, in name.
England could boast a judge almost the same;
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just,

Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust,
And given the spirit to the world again,
To sentence letters as he sentenced men.
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black,
With voice as willing to decree the rack;

Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, but Curll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was one or both, once sellers of books they did not write, a bookseller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of and now writers of books that do not sell, have pub Lord Hervey, author of Lines to the Imitator of lished a pair of epics: Alfred-(poor Alfred! Pye has been at him too!)-Alfred and the Fall of

Horace.

Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope Cambria. after his decease, because the poet had retained some copies of a work by Lord Bolingbroke (the Patriot King), which that splendid but malignant genius had ordered to be destroyed.

Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester: Silence ye wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, Making night hideous; answer him, ye owls!-' Dunciad See Bowles's late edition of Pope's Works, for which he received 300l.: thus Mr. B. has experienced how much easier it is to profit by the reputation of another than to elevate his own.

+ Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of a ponderous quarto, upon the Beauties of Richmond Hill, and the like it also takes in a charming view of Turnham Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old and New, and the parts adjacent.

Poor Montgomery, though praised by every English Review, has been bitterly reviled by the Edin burgh. After all, the bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable genius; his Wanderer of Switzerland is worth a thousand Lyrical Ballads, and at least fifty degraded epics.'

Arthur's Seat, the hill which overhangs Edinburgh,

Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw;
Since well instructed in the patriot school
To rail at party, though a party tool,
Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore
Back to the sway they forfeited before,
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet,
And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat?
Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope,
And greeting thus, present him with a rope:
'Heir to my virtues! man of equal mind?
Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind,
This cord receive, for thee reserved with care,
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear."

But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er

The field, and saved him from the wrath of More;
From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead,
And straight restor'd it to her favourite's head;
That head, with greater than magnetic power,
Caught it, as Danaë caught the golden shower,
And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine,
Augments its ore, and is itself a mine.

My son,' she cried, 'ne'er thirst for gore again,
Resign the pistol and resume the pen;
O'er politics and poesy preside,

Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide!
For long as Albion's heedless sons submit,
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit,
So long shall last thine unmolested reign,

Health to great Jeffrey! Heaven preserve his Nor any dare to take thy name in vain.

life,

To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife,
And guard it sacred in its future wars,

Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars!
Can none remember that eventful day,
That ever glorious, almost fatal fray,
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye,
And Bow Street myrmidons stood laughing by ?*
Oh, day disastrous! on her firm-set rock,
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock;
Dark roll'd the sympathetic wayes of Forth,
Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north;
Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear,
The other half pursued its calm career;t
Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base,
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place.
The Tolbooth felt-for marble sometimes can,
On such occasions, feel as much as man--
The Toibooth felt defrauded of his charms,
If Jeffrey died, except within her arms:‡
Nay, last, not least, on that portentous morn,
The sixteenth storey, where himself was born,
His patrimonial garret, fell to ground,
And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound:
Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white

reams,

Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams;
This of his candour seem'd the sable dew,
That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue;
And all with justice deem'd the two combined
The mingled emblems of his mighty mind.

In 1806, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk Farm. The duel was prevented by the interference of the magistracy; and, on examination, the balls of the pistols, like the courage of the combatants, were found to have evaporated. This incident gave occasion to much waggery in the daily prints.

Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan,
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan.
First in the ranks illustrious shall be seen
The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen.
Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer,† and some
times,

In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes.
Smug Sydney, too, thy bitter page shall seek,
And classic Hallam, much renown'd for Greek;
Scott may perchance his name and influence lend,
And paltry Pillans shall traduce his friend;
While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe, ¶
As he himself was damn'd, shall try to damn.
Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway!
Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay;
While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes
To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes.
Yet mark one caution, ere thy next Review
Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue,

His Lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the Athenian Society, and Reviewer of Gell's Topo graphy of Troy.

+ Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. One of the principal pieces is a Song on the Recovery of Thor's Hammer: the translation is a pleasant chant in the vulgar tongue, and endeth thus: 'Instead of money and rings, I wot,

The hammer's bruises were her lot:
Thus Odin's son his hammer got.'
The Reverend Sydney Smith, the reputed author
of Peter Plymley's Letters, and sundry criticisms.

Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's Taste, and was exceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein: it was not discovered that the lines were Pindar's till the press rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, which still stands an everlasting monument of Hallam's ingenuity.

The said Hallam is incensed, because he is falsely accused, seeing that he never dineth at Holland House. If this be true, I am sorry-not for having said so, but on his account, as I understand his Lordship's feasts are preferable to his compositions. If he did not re+ The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum; view Lord Holland's performance, I am glad, because it would have been highly reprehensible in the English it must have been painful to read, and irksome to half of the river to have shown the smallest symptom praise it. If Mr. Hallam will tell me who did review of apprehension. it, the real name shall find a place in the text; provided.

This display of sympathy on the part of the Tol-nevertheless, the said name be of two orthodox musical booth (the principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly syllables, and will come into the verse; till then, Hilam seems to have been inost affected on this occasion, is must stand for want of a better. much to be commended. It was to be apprehended Pillans was a tutor at Eton. that the many unhappy criminals executed in the front The Honourable G. Lambe reviewed Beresford's might have rendered the edifice more callous. She is Miseries, and is, moreover, author of a farce enacted said to be of the softer sex, because Iter delicacy of with much applause at the Priory, Stanmore; and feeling on this day was truly feminine, though, like damned with great expedition at Covent Garden. It most feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish. was entitled Whistle for It.

Beware lest blundering Brougham* destroy the sale,
Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail.'
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kiss'd
Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist.†

Illustrious Holland! hard would be his lot,
His hirelings mentioned, and himself forgot!
Holland, with Henry Petty‡ at his back,
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack.
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House,
Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse!
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof,

Shall Grub Street dine, while duns are kept aloof.
See honest Hallam lay aside his fork,
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work,
And, grateful to the founder of the feast,
Declare his landlord can translate at least!
Dunedin! view thy children with delight,
They write for food-and feed because they write:
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape,
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape,
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek,
My lady skims the cream of each critique;
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul,
Reforms each error, and refines the whole.

Now to the Drama turn-Oh! motley sight! What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite! Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent,¶

And Dibdin's nonsense, yield complete content.**
Though now, thank Heaven, the Rosciomania's
o'er,tt

And full grown actors are endured once more;
Yet what avail their vain attempts to please,
While British critics suffer scenes like these,

While Reynolds vents his 'Dammes ! Poohs !' and
'Zounds !'*

And commonplace and common sense confounds?
While Kenny'st World, just suffer'd to proceed,
Proclaims the audience very kind indeed!
And Beamont's pilfer'd Caratach affords
A tragedy complete in all but words?
Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage,
The degradation of our vaunted stage?
Heavens is all sense of shame and talent gone?
Have we no living bard of merit ?-none !
Awake, George Colman! Cumberland, awake!
Ring the alarum-bell! let folly quake!
Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen,
Let Comedy assume her throne again;
Abjure the mummery of the German schools;
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools;
Give, as thy last memorial to the age,
One classic drama, and reform the stage.
Gods o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head,
Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread ?
On those shall Farce display Buffoon'ry's mask,
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask?
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce
From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose?
While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot,
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot?
Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim
The rival candidates for Attic fame!

In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise,
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize.
And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise,
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays
Renown'd alike; whose genius ne'er confines
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs:
Nor sleeps with Sleeping Beauties,' but anon

Mr. Brougham, in No. xxv. of the Edinburgh Re-In five facetious acts comes thundering on,||
view, throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de
Cevallos, has displayed more politics than policy;
many of the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh being so
incensed at the infamous principles it evinces, as to
have withdrawn their subscriptions.

+ I ought 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 not say Caledonia's genius, it being well known there is no genius to be found from Clackmannan to Caithness; yet without supernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved? The national "kelpies,' &c., are too unpoetical, and the brownies' and 'gude neighbours (spirits of a good disposition) refused to extricate him. A goddess therefore has been called for the purpose; and great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only communication he ever held, or is likely to hold, with anything heavenly

Marquis of Lansdowne.

Lord H. has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega, inserted in his life of the author: both are bepraised by his disinterested guests.

While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene,
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean;
But as some hands applaud, a venal few!
Rather than sleep, why, John applauds it too.
Such are we now. Ah! wherefore should we turn
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn?
Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame?
Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame,
Well may the nobles of our present race
Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face;
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons,
And worship Catalani's pantaloons,¶

*All these are favourite expressions of Mr Reynolds, and prominent in his comedies, living and defunct. Author of the farce of Raising the Wind, and other pieces.

Certain it is, her Ladyship is suspected of having Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury Lane displayed her matchless wit in the Edinburgh Review. Theatre, stripped the tragedy of Bonduca of the However that may be, we know from good authority dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of that the manuscripts are submitted to her perusal-no Caractacus. Was this worthy of his sire? or of himdoubt for correction. self?

Mr. Greenwood was scene-painter to Drury Lane

In the melodrama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapt into a barrel on the stage-a new asylum for dis- Theatre. tressed heroes.

** Thomas Dibdin, author of The Cabinet, English Fleet, Mother Goose, etc., and son of the great English lyrist.

++ The performances of a child called the young Roscius; his name was Betty.

Mr. Skeffington is the illustrious author of the Sleeping Beauty, and some comedies, particularly Maids and Bachelors: Baccalaurii baculo magis quam lauro digni.

Naldi and Catalani require little notice: for the visage of the one and the salary of the other will

Since their own drama yields no fairer trace
Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace.

Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art
To soften manners, but corrupt the heart,
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town,

To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down:
Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes,
And bless the promise which his form displays;
While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks
Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes:
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Prêsle
Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil;
Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow,
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe;
Collini trill her love-inspiring song,

Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng!
Raise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice!
Reforming saints ! too delicately nice!
By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save,
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave;
And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day.

Or, hail at once the patron and the pile
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle!*
Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane,
Spreads wide her portals for the motley train,
Behold the new Petronius of the day,†
The arbiter of pleasure and of play !
There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir.
The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre,
The song from Italy, the step from France,
The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance,
The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine,

For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine:
Each to his humour-Comus all allows;
Champagne, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse,
Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade!
Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made;
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask,
Nor think of poverty, except en masque,
When for the night some lately titled ass
Appears the beggar which his grandsire was.
The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er,
The audience take their turn upon the floor:
Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep,
Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap;
The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim,
The last display the free unfetter'd limb!
Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair

With art the charms which nature could not spare;
These after husbands wing their eager flight,
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night.
Oh! blest retreats of infamy and ease,
Where, all forgotten but the power to please,

Each mid may give a loose to genial thought,
Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught:
There the blithe youngster, just return'd from Spain,
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main;
The jovial caster's set, and seven's the nick,
Or-done-a thousand on the coming trick!
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire,
And all your hope or wish is to expire,
Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life,
And, kinder still, a Paget for your wife;
Fit consummation of an earthly race
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace,

While none but menials o'er the bed of death
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering
breath;

Traduced by liars, and forgot by all,

The mangled victim of a drunken brawl,
To live like Clodius, and like Falkland fall.*

Truth! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand

To drive this pestilence from out the land.
E'en I-least thinking of a thoughtless throng,
Just skill'd to know the right and choose the wrong,
Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost,
To fight my course through passion's countless host,
Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray-
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal:
Although some kind, censorious friend will say,
'What art thou better, meddling fool, than they?
And every brother rake will smile to see
That miracle, a moralist in me.

No matter when some bard in virtue strong,
Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song,
Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice;
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply.

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals
From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles,t
Why should we call them from their dark abode,
In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road?
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square
If things of ton their harmless lays indite,
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight,

I knew the late Lord Fa'kland well. On Sunday night I beheld him presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride of hospitality; on Wednesday morn ing, at three o'clock, saw stretched before me all that remained of courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a gallant and successful officer: his faults were the faults of a sailor; as such, Britons will forgive them. He died like a brave man in a better cause [he was killed in a duel]; for had he fallen enable us long to recollect these amusing vagabonds. in like manner on the deck of the frigate to which he Besides, we are still black and blue from the squeeze was just appointed, his last moments would have been on the first night of the lady's appearance in trousers. held up by his countrymen as an example to succeedTo prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a ing heroes.

street for a man, I beg leave to state that it is the In- What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anstitution, and not the Duke of that name, which is acreon, Hafiz, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre here alluded to. at Sheeraz, where he reposes with Ferdousi and Sadi, + Petronius, Arbiter elegantiarum' to Nero, and the oriental Homer and Catullus, and behold his name a very pretty fellow in his day,' as Mr. Congreve's assumed by one Stott of Dromore, the most impudent Old Bachelor saith. and execrable of literary poachers for the daily prints?

« AnteriorContinuar »