his abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here censured, renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the Author, that some known and able writer had undertaken their exposure, but Mr. GIFFORD has devoted himself to Massinger, and in the absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. -As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would,

indeed, require a Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the Author succeeds in merely « bruising one of the heads of the serpent, »> though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied.

ENGLISH BARDS,

AND

SCOTCH REVIEWERS.

STILL must I hear?-shall hoarse (1) FITZGerald bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,

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

(1) IMITATION.

Semper ego auditor tantum ? nunquamne reponam << Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri? >>

Juvenal, Sat. I.

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.

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,

Our task complete, like Hamet's (1) 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;
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,
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.
Still there are follies e'en for me to chace,
And yield at least amusement in the race :

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

The

Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
and Scribblers are my game:
cry is up,
Speed, Pegasus!-ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy, have at you all!

I, too, can scrawl, 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.
Not that a Title's sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMBE must own, since his patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame (1).
No matter, GEORGE continues still to write (2),
Tho' now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example I pursue

The self-same road, but make my own review:
Not seek great JEFFREY'S, yet, like him, will be
Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.

A man must serve his time to every trade,
Save Censure-Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skilled to find or forge a fault,
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;
To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit;

(1) This ingenious youth is mentioned more particularly, with his production, in another place.

(2) In the EDINBURGH REVIEW.