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Let ABERDEEN and Elgin* still pursue
The shade of Fame through regions of Virtue ;
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks,
Misshapen monuments, and maim'd antiques ;
And make their grand saloons a general mart
For all the mutilated blocks of art ;
Of Dardan tours, let Dilettanti tell,
I leave topography to classic Gell ;t
And, quite content, no more shall interpose,
To stun mankind with poesy or prose.

Thus far I've held my undisturb’d career,
Prepar'd for rancour, steeld 'gainst selfish fear;
This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own-
Though not obstrusive, yet not quite unknown,
My voice was heard again, though not so loud,
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd,
And now at once I tear the veil away ;-
Cheer on the pack! and quarry stands at bay,
Unscar’d by all the din of MELBOURNE house,
By LAMBE's resentment, or by HOLLAND's spouse,
By JEFFREY's harmless pistol, HALLAM's rage,
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough,
And feel they too are “penetrable stuff :"
And though I hope not hence unscath'd to go,
Who conquers me, shall find a stubborn foe.
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall,

* Lord Elgin would fain persuade us, that all the figures, with and without noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of Phidias : “ Credat Judæus!"

† Mr. Gell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot fail to ensure the approbation of every man possessed of classical taste, as well for the information Mr. G. conveys to the mind of the reader, as for the ability and research the respective works display.

Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes ;
But now so callous grown, so chang'd since youth,
I've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth;
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree,
And break him on the wheel he meant for me;
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss;
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown,
I too can hunt a poetaster down:
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once
To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce.
Thus much I've dar'd to do ; how far my lay
Hath wrong’d these righteous times, let others say:
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare,
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare.


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