Lo! BURNS and BLOOMFIELD, nay, a greater far,
GIFFORD was born beneath an adverse star,
Forsook the labours of a servile state,

Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over Fate;
Then why no more? if Phoebus smil'd on you,
BLOOMFIELD! why not on brother NATHAN too?
Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seiz'd;
Not inspiration but a mind diseas'd:

And now no boor can seek his last abode,
No common be enclos'd without an ode.*
Oh! since increas'd refinement deigns to smile
On Britain's sons and bless our genial isle,
Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole,
Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul;
Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong,
Compose at once a slipper and a song;
So shall the fair your handy work peruse,
Your sonnets sure shall please-perhaps your shoes
May Moorlandt weavers boast Pindaric skill,
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill;
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes,
And

pay for poems-when they pay for coats.

To the fam'd throng now paid the tribute due,
Neglected Genius! let me turn to you.

Come forth, Oh! CAMPBELL! give thy talents scope;
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope?

*See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever he or any one else ehooses to call it, on the enclosure of " Honington Green."

† Vide "Recollection of a Weaver in the Moorlands of Staffordshire." It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the reader the authors of "The Pleasures of Memory" and "The Pleasures of Hope," the most beautiful didactic poems in our language, if we except Pope's Essay on Man: but so many poetasters have started up, that even the names of Campbell and gers are become strange.

And thou, melodious ROGERS! rise at last,
Recall the pleasing memory of the past;
Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire,
And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre ;
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,

Assert thy country's honour and thine own.
What! must deserted Poesy still weep

Where her last hopes with pious COWPER sleep?
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns,
To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, BURNS!
No! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood,
The race who rhyme from folly, or for food;
Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast,
Who least affecting, still affect the most;

Feel as they write, and write but as they feel-
Bear witness, GIFFORD, SOTHEBY, and MACNEIL.*
"Why slumbers GIFFORD!" once was ask'd in vain ;†
Why slumbers GIFFORD? let us ask again.
Are there no follies for his pen to purge?

Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge?
Are there no sins for Satire's bard to greet?
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street?
Shall peers or princes tread Pollution's path,
And 'scape alike the Law's and Muse's wrath?
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time,
Eternal beacons of consummate crime?

* Gifford, author of the Baviad and Mæviad, the first satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal.

Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon, and Virgil's Georgics, and author of Saul, an epic poem.

Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular: particularly "Scotland's Scaith, or the Ways of War," of which ten thousand copies were sold in one month.

Mr. Gifford promised publicly that the Baviad and Mæviad should not be his last original works: let him remember " Mox in reluctantes Dracones"

Arouse thee, GIFFORD! be thy promise claim'd,
Make bad men better, or at least asham'd.

Unhappy WHITE !* while life was in its spring,
And thy young Muse just wav'd her joyous wing,
The spoiler came; all, all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son!
Yes, she too much indulg'd thy fond pursuit,
She sow'd the seeds, but Death has reap'd the fruit.
"Twas thine own genius gave the final blow
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low:
So the struck eagle stretch'd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart;
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel,
He nurs'd the pinion which impell'd the steel.
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest,
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
There be, who say in these enlighten'd days
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise;
That strain'd Invention, ever on the wing,
Alone impels the modern bard to sing;
"Tis true, that all who rhyme, nay, all who write,
Shrink from that fatal word to genius-Trite;

* Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret, that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.

Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires,
And decorate the verse herself inspires;

This fact in virtue's name let CRABBE attest,
Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.
And here let SHEE* and genius find a place,
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace;
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine,
And trace the poet's, or the painter's line;
Whose magic touch can bid the canvass glow;
= Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow,
While honours doubly merited attend

The poet's rival, but the painter's friend.

Blest is the man! who dares approach the bower
Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour;

Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd afar,
The clime that nurs'd the sons of song
and war,
The scenes which Glory still must hover o'er;
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore:
But doubly blest is he, whose heart expands
With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands;
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by,
And views their remnants with a poet's eye!
WRIGHT! 'twas thy happy lot at once to view
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too;
And sure no common Muse inspir'd thy pen
To hail the land of gods and godlike men.

And you, associate bards! who snatch'd to light
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight;

* Mr. Shee, author of " Rhymes on Art," and " Elements of Art."

Mr. Wright, late consul general for the seven islands, is author of a very beautiful poem just published: it is entitled "Horæ Ionicæ," and is descrip tive of the Isles and the adjacent coast of Greece.

The translators of the Anthology have since published separate poems, which evince genius that only requires opportunity to attain eminence.

180

Whose mingling taste combin'd to cull the wreath
Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe,
And all their renovated fragrance flung,
To grace the beauties of your native tongue;

Now let those minds that nobly could transfuse
The glorious spirit of the Grecian Muse,
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone:
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own.

Let these, or such as these, with just applause,
Restore the Muse's violated laws;

But not in flimsy DARWIN'S pompous chime,
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme;
Whose gilded cymbals more adorn'd than clear,
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear,
In show the simple lyre could once surpass,
But now worn down, appear in native brass;
While all his train of hovering sylphs around,
Evaporate in similes and sound;

Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die:
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.*
Yet let them not to vulgar WORDSWORTH stoop,
The meanest object of the lowly group,

Whose verse of all but childish prattle void,
Seems blessed harmony to LAMBE and LLOYD:†
Let them-but hold, my Muse, nor dare to teach
A strain, far, far beyond thy humble reach;
The native genius with their feeling given
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven.
And thou, too, SCOTT! resign to minstrels rude
The wilder slogan of a border feud!

* The neglect of the " Botanic Garden," is some proof of returning taste; the scenery is its sole recommendation.

Lambe and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of Southey and Co

I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem his hero or heroine will