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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.
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
The field is universal, and allows
And heartless daughters
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh? 'Gainst
Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid mis-
creant ! Muses,
Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's Contend not with you on the winged
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
With just enough of talent, and no
An orator of such set trash of phrase
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
Of endless torments and perpetual motion.
Milton appeal’d to the Avenger, Time, And botching, patching, leaving still be-
hind And makes the word Miltonic' mean Something of which its masters are afraid, sublime,'
States to be curb'd and thoughts to be
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old
With God and man's abhorrence for its
Emasculated to the marrow It
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,
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.
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
Brave men were living before Agamem-
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,
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,