If he must fain sweep o'er the etherial plain,

And Pegasus runs restive in his "Waggon," Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain? Or pray Medea for a single dragon?

Or if too classic for his vulgar brain,

He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon?

"Pedlars, and "Boats," and "Waggons!" Oh! 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 scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss !-
The "little boatman," and his "Peter Bell,"
Can sneer at him who drew "Achitophel !"

POETICAL COMMANDMENTS.

(DON JUAN, Canto i. Stanzas 204-206.)

IF ever I should condescend to prose,

I'll write poetical commandments, which
Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those

That went before; in these I shall enrich
My text with many things that no one knows,
And carry precept to the highest pitch :
I'll call the work "Longinus o'er a Bottle,
Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle."

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;

Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey; Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,

The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy: With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,

And Campbell's Hipprocrene is somewhat drouthy : Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor Commit-flirtation with the muse of Moore.

Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse,
His Pegasus, nor any thing that's his;

Thou shalt not bear false witness like "the Blues".
(There's one, at least, is very fond of this);
Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose :
This is true criticism, and you may kiss—
Exactly as you please, or not-the rod ;
But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G―d!

BYRON AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES.

(DON JUAN, Canto xi. Stanzas 53-60.)

JUAN knew several languages-as well

He might-and brought them up with skill, in time To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. There wanted but this requisite to swell

His qualities (with them) into sublime: Lady Fitz-Frisky and Miss Mævia Mannish, Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish.

However, he did pretty well, and was
Admitted as an aspirant to all
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass,
At great assemblies or in parties small,
He saw ten thousand living authors pass,
That being about their average numeral ;
Also the eighty "greatest living poets,"
As every paltry magazine can show it's.

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.

T

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero

My Leipsic, and my Mont Saint Jean seems Cain : "La Belle Alliance" of dunces down at zero,

Now that the Lion's fall'n, 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.

Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Campbell
Before and after; but now grown more holy,
The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly;
And Pegasus hath a psalmodic amble

Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley,
Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts,
A modern Ancient Pistol-by the hilts!

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.

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders
To that which none will gain-or none will know
The conqueror at least; who, ere time renders

His last award, will have the long grass grow
Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders.
If I might augur, I should rate but low

Their chances ;-they're too numerous, like the thirty Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty.

POETICAL PRODUCTION.

(DON JUAN, Canto xiv. Stanzas IO, II.)

I HAVE brought this world about my ears, and eke
The other; that's to say, the clergy—who
Upon my head have bid their thunders break
In pious libels by no means a few.

And yet I can't help scribbling once a week,
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new.
In youth I wrote because my mind was full,
And now because I feel it growing dull.

But "why then publish?"-There are no rewards
Of fame or profit when the world grows weary.

I ask in turn,-Why do you play at cards?

Why drink? Why read?—To make some hour less dreary.

It occupies me to turn back regards

On what I've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream,

To swim or sink-I have had at least my dream.