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II.

I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green, and of mild declivity, the last
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Ansing from such rustic roofs;-the hill
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man :
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing-the one on all that was beneath,
Fair as herself-but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful :
And both were young-yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had look'd
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers;
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers;
Which colour'd all his objects :-he had ceased
To live within himself; she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously-his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.

But sbe in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother-but no more; twas much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him;
Herself the solitary scion left

Of a time-honour'd race.-It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not-
and why?

Time taught him a deep answer--when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

III.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
I's walls there was a steed caparison'd:
Within an antique Oratory stood

The Boy of whom I spake ;- he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he
lean d
['twere
shook as

His bow'd head on his hands, and
With a convulsion-then arose again,

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears,
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet as he paused,

The Lady of his love re-enter'd there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved, - she knew,
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his
heart

Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more.

IV.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Boy was sprung to manhood; in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
And on the shore he was a wanderer;
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names
Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man,
Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumber'd around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.

V.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love was wed with One
Who did not love her better:-in her home,
A thousand leagues from his,―her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,
Daughters and sons of Beauty,-but behold!
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be ?--she had all she loved;
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be?--she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved;
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.

VI.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was return'd.-I saw him stand
Before an altar-with a gentle bride;

Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The starlight of his Boyhood. As he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique Oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then-
As in that hour-a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reel'd around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have

been

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall,
And the remember'd chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny,-came back
And thrust themselves between him and the light:
What business had they there at such a time?

VII.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream,
The Lady of his love;-oh! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy: but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;

What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!

VIII.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compass'd round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch* of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived [men,
Through that which had been death to many
And made him friends of mountains: with the
And the quick Spirit of the Universe [stars
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was open'd wide,

Mithridates of Pontus.

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd A marvel and a secret.-Be it so.

IX.

My dream was past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality-the one

To end in madness-both in misery.

LINES

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.
AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee!
And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near;

Methought that joy and health alone could be
And is it thus ?-it is as I foretold,
Where I was not--and pain and sorrow here!

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold,
It is not in the storm nor in the strife
While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils.

We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more. When all is lost, except a little life. But in the after-silence on the shore,

I am too well avenged!—but 'twas my right! Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent To be the Nemesis who should requite-

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. Mercy is for the merciful!--if thou

Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!

Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel A hollow agony which will not heal, For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep; Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap The bitter harvest in a woe as real!

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Even upon such a basis hast thou built
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt !
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,
And hew'd down with an unsuspected sword,
Fame, peace, and hope-and all the better life

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart.
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife.
And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, For present anger, and for future gold And buying other's grief at any price. And thus once enter'd into crooked ways, The early truth, which was thy proper praise,

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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 persenally, 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 Powles'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. 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 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

• Mr Hobhouse.

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.

STILL must I hear?-shall hoarse Fitzgerald | Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase,
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, [bawl
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! foredoom'd 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.
What wits, what poets, dost thou daily raise !
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!

Condemn'd 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, shall be free;+
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream
Inspires-our path, though full of thorns,
plain :

is

Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.
When Vice triumphant holds her sovereign
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey; [sway,
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every chime ;
When knaves and fools combined o'er all pre-
And weigh their justice in a golden scale. [vail,
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.

• IMITATION:

Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne reponam, Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri?'JUVENAL, Sat. 1. 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."

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!

And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ;
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game.
Speed, Pegasus !-ye strains of great and small,
Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all!

I too can scrawl, and once upon a time
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame:
I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme :
I printed-older children do the same.
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print:
A book's a book, although 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
Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame.*
No matter, George continues still to write, †
Though now the name is veil'd 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 hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote:
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault;
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet,
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit;
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest,
And stand a critic, hated yet caress d.

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To these, when authors bend in humble awe, In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare,
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law-Till the swoll'n bubble bursts-and all is air!
While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare,
While such are critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,

'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun; Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, Our bards and censors are so much alike.

Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er
The path that Pope and Gifford trod before;
If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed:
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
But hold!' exclaims a friend, here's some
neglect:

This-that-and t'other line seem incorrect.'
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has
got,

And careless Dryden-'Ay, but Pye has not:'-
Indeed!-'tis granted, faith !-but what care I?
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye.

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vain;

A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame.
Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song,
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.
Then Congreve'st scenes could cheer, or Ot-
way's melt-

For nature then an English audience felt.

But why these names, or greater still, retrace,
When all to feebler bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,
When taste and reason with those times are past.
Now look around, and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the age;
This truth at least let satire's self allow,
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now.
The loaded press beneath her labour groans,
And printer's devils shake their weary bones;
While Southey's epics cram the creaking shelves,
And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves.
Thus saith the preacher: 'Nought beneath the
[run:
Is new; yet still from change to change we
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas,

sun

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Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize :
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail;
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal,
And, hurling lawful genius from the throne,
Erects a shrine and idol of its own;

Some leaden calf-but whom it matters not,
From soaring Southey down to grovelling
Stott.*

[crew,

Behold! in various throngs the scribbling
For notice eager, pass in long review:
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race;
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And tales of terror jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along ;
For simpering folly loves a varied song,
To strange mysterious dulness still the friend,
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels may they be the
last! +-

On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast;
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at nights;
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood,+
Decoy young border nobles through the wood,
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why;

Stott, better known in the Morning Post by the name of Hafiz. This person is at present the most profound explorer Portugal, a special ode of Master Stott's beginning thus of the bathos. I remember, when the reigning family left (Stott loquitur quoad Hibernia):

'Princely offspring of Braganza,

Erin greets thee with a stanza,' &c. Also a sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a most thundering ode, commencing as follows:

'Oh for a lay! loud as the surge

That lashes Lapland's sounding shore!' nothing to this. Lord have mercy on us! the Lay of the Last Minstrel was

See the Lay of the Last Minstrel, passim. Never was any plan so incongruous and absurd as the groundwork of this production. The entrance of Thunder and Lightning prologuising to Bayes' Tragedy, unfortunately takes away the merit of originality from the dialogue between Messieurs the Spirits of Flood and Fell in the first canto. Then we have the amiable William of Deloraine, a stark mosstrooper,' videlicet, a happy compound of poacher, sheep-stealer, and not to read can only be equalled by his candid acknowledg highwayman. The propriety of his magical lady's injunction ment of his independence of the trammels of spelling, although, ribee, i. e. the gallows.

to use his own elegant phrase, ''twas his neck-verse at Har

The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous horse, without the aid of seven-leagued boots, are chefs pedestrian page, who travelled twice as fast as his master's d'œuvre in the improvement of taste. For incident we have the invisible, but by no means sparing box on the ear be stowed on the page, and the entrance of a knight and charger into the castle, under the very natural disguise of a wain of hay. Marmion, the hero of the latter romance, is exactly what William of Deloraine would have been, had he been able to read and write. The poem was manufactured for Messrs Constable, Murray, and Miller, worshipful booksellers, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of money; and truly, considering the inspiration, it is a very creditable production. If Mr Scott will write for hire, let him do his best doubtedly great, by a repetition of black-letter ballad imitafor his paymasters, but not disgrace his genius, which is un.

tions.

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