TO MR. MURRAY.

FOR Orford and for Waldegrave
You give much more than me you gave;
Which is not fairly to behave,

My Murray.

Because if a live dog, 't is said,
Be worth a lion fairly sped,

A live lord must be worth two dead,
My Murray.

And if, as the opinion goes,
Verse hath a better sale than prose,-
Certes, I should have more than those,
My Murray.

But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd,
So, if you will, I shan't be shamm'd,
And if you won't, you may be damn'd,
My Murray.

THE IRISH AVATAR.

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now?
Were he God-as he is but the commonest clay,
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow-
Such servile devotion might shame him away.

Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride-
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.

[gun

Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued,
And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.
Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,
Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was be-
But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb
Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one!
With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute,
And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance
of his mind.

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more, And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags

Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.

To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth; Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes!

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves; Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves! He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore,

To perform in the pageant the sovereign's partBut long live the shamrock, which shadows him o'er! Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart!

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, And a new spring of noble affections ariseThen might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain, [skies.

this shout of thy slavery which saddens the

Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain! True freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves, When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain. Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide), Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy lord! [nied! Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings de

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,

If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,
Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves
yield their prey?

Each brute hath its nature; a king's is to reign,—
To reign in that word see, ye ages, comprised
The cause of the curses all annals contain,
From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised!
Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, proclaim

His accomplishments! His!!! andthy country conHalf an age's contempt was an error of fame, [vince And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young prince!"

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs?
Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all [hymns?
The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with
Ay! "Build him a dwelling!" let each give his
mite!

Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen! Let thy beggars and helots their pittance uniteAnd a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison!

Spread-spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast,
Till the gluttonous despot be stuff'd to the gorge!
And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last
The fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd
"George!"

[throne, Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has to flow.

But let not his name be thine idol alone-
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears!
Thine own Castlereagh ! let him still be thine own!
A wretch never named but with curses and jeers!
Till now, when the isle which should blush for his
birth,

Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil, Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her [smile.

earth,

See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full
Still warming its folds in the breast of a king!
Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still!
My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy
right,

My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free, This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight, [for thee!

And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land, [sons,

I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy And I wept with the world, o'er the patriot band Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. For happy are they now reposing afar,

Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves! Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-dayNor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled; [core There was something so warm and sublime in the Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy-thy dead. Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power,

Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore! September, 1821.

TWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA.

OH, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is
wrinkled?
[sprinkled.
"T is but as a dead-flower with May-dew be-
Then away with all such from the head that is
hoary!
[glory!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give
Oh FAME!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding
phrases,
[cover,

Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one dis-
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround
thee;
[my story,
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

November, 1821.

STANZAS TO A HINDOO AIR. Он! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Where is my lover? where is my lover? Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover? Far-far away! and alone along the billow? Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! [lay? Why must my head ache where his gentle brow How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, And my head droops over thee like the willow! Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow! Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from break. In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking; Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.

[ing,

Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, And then expire of the joy-but to behold him! Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow!

IMPROMPTU.

BENEATH Blessington's eyes
The reclaimed Paradise

Should be free as the former from evil;
But if the new Eve

For an Apple should grieve, What mortal would not play the Devil?

1823.

TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

You have ask'd for a verse:-the request In a rhymer 't were strange to deny ; But my Hippocrene was but my breast, And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.

Were I now as I was, I had sung

What Lawrence has painted so well; But the strain would expire on my tongue, And the theme is too soft for my shell.

I am ashes where once I was fire,

And the bard in my bosom is dead; What I loved I now merely admire, And my heart is as grey as my head.

My life is not dated by years

There are moments which act as a plough; And there is not a furrow appears

But is deep in my soul as my brow.

Let the young and the brilliant aspire
To sing what I gaze on in vain ;
For sorrow has torn from my lyre
The string which was worthy the strain.

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.

MISSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824.

"TIS time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 't is not thus-and 't is not here—
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now.
Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

- Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be "turned from the career of my humour by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I should have complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none personally, who did not commence on the offensive. An author's works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better.

As the poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy of public perusal.

In the first edition of this satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written by, and inserted at the request of, an ingenious friend of mine,† who has now in the press a volume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead; my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner,-a determination not to publish with my name any production which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition.

This preface was written for the second edition, and printed with it. The noble author had left this country previous to the publication of that edition, and is not yet returned.-Note to the fourth edition, 1811.

With regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author that there can be little difference of opinion in the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are over-rated, 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 an 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.

+ [Mr. Hobhouse.]

[Here the preface to the first edition commenced.]