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You — Gentlemen ! by dint of long secluBOB SOUTHEY! You 're a poet — Poet-. sion laureate,

From better company, have kept your And representative of all the race, Although 't is true that you turn'd out a At Keswick, and, through still continued Tory at

fusion Last, — yours has lately been a common Of one another's minds, at last have case;

grown And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye To deem as a most logical conclusion, at?

That Poesy has wreaths for you alone : With all the Lakers, in and out of place ? There is a narrowness in such a notion, A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye

Which makes me wish you 'd change your Like · four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;' lakes for ocean.

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You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,

At being disappointed in your wish To supersede all warblers here below,

And be the only Blackbird in the dish; And then you overstrain yourself, or so, 21 And tumble downward like the flying

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The field is universal, and allows

And heartless daughters

and
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow: pale – and poor;
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Would he adore a sultan ? he obey
Crabbe will try

The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh? 'Gainst

you
the question with posterity.
VIII

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid mis-
For me, who, wandering with pedestrian

creant ! Muses,

Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's Contend not with you on the winged

gore, steed,

And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, I wish your fate may yield ye, when she Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore, chooses,

The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could The fame you envy and the skill you

want, need;

With just enough of talent, and no
And recollect a poet nothing loses

more,
In giving to his brethren their full meed To lengthen fetters by another fix'd,
Of merit, and complaint of present days And offer poison long already mix'd.
Is not the certain path to future praise.

An orator of such set trash of phrase
He that reserves his laurels for posterity Ineffably - legitimately vile,
(Who does not often claim the bright That even its grossest flatterers dare not
reversion)

praise, Has generally no great crop to spare it, he Nor foes all nations condescend to Being only injured by his own assertion;

smile, And although here and there some glorious Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can rarity

blaze Arise like Titan from the sea's immer- From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless sion,

toil, The major part of such appellants go That turns and turns to give the world a To - God knows where — for no one else

notion
can know.

Of endless torments and perpetual motion.
X
If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, A bungler even in its disgusting trade,

Milton appeal’d to the Avenger, Time, And botching, patching, leaving still be-
If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs,

hind And makes the word Miltonic' mean Something of which its masters are afraid, sublime,'

States to be curb'd and thoughts to be
He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs,

confined,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime; Conspiracy or Congress to be made-
He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Cobbling at manacles for all mankind
Son,

A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

chains,

With God and man's abhorrence for its
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gains.
Think'st thou, could he — the blind Old
Man – arise

XV
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze If we may judge of matter by the mind,

Emasculated to the marrow It
The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, Hath but two objects, how to serve and
Or be alive again – again all hoar

bind,
With time and trials, and those helpless Deeming the chain it wears even men

eyes,

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Eutropius of its many masters, – blind Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,

stalk, Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice, Followers of fame, nine farrow' of that Its very courage stagnates to a vice.

France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumou

rier Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds, Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

For I will never feel them ? - Italy ! Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, o'er thee

Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La FayThy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green ette, wounds,

Were French, and famous people, as we Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me.

know: Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies And there were others, scarce forgotten still,

yet, And Southey lives to sing them very ill. Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix,

Moreau,

With many of the military set, Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedi- Exceedingly remarkable at times, cate,

But not at all adapted to my rhymes.
In honest simple verse, this song to you.
And, if in flattering strains I do not predi-
cate,

Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, 'T is that I still retain my buff and And still should be so, but the tide is blue;'

turn'd; My politics as yet are all to educate: There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar, Apostasy 's so fashionable, too,

'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd; To keep one creed's a task grown quite Because the army's grown more popular, 29 Herculean;

At which the naval people are concern’d; Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian ? Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, VENICE, September 16, 1818.

Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and

Jervis.
CANTO THE FIRST

Brave men were living before Agamem-
I WANT a hero : an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
a new one,

A good deal like him too, though quite the Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,

same none; The age discovers he is not the true one; But then they shone not on the poet's Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,

page, I'll therefore take our ancient friend And so have been forgotten:— I condemn

Don Juan We all have seen him, in the pantomime, But can't find any in the present age Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);

So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan. Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,

Most epic poets plunge in medias res' Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, (Horace makes this the heroic turnKeppel, Howe,

pike road), Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, And then your hero tells, whene'er you And fill’d their sign posts then, like please, Wellesley now;

What went before by way of episode,

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His mother was a learned lady, famed

For every branch of every science known She liked the English and the Hebrew In every Christian language ever named,

tongue, With virtues equall'd by her wit alone, And said there was analogy between 'em; She made the cleverest people quite She proved it somehow out of sacred song, ashamed,

But I must leave the proofs to those And even the good with inward envy who've seen 'em; groan,

But this I heard her say, and can't be Finding themselves so very much exceeded

wrong, In their own way by all the things that she And all may think which way their judgdid.

ments lean 'em,

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