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But, should ye snarling o’er these fragments starve,
We may some second course hereafter carve;
Though of the two I'd rather that your rage
Shòuld lash, than your applause disgrace my page,
Since such to please we must not go too far,
As

peace with such more dangerous is than war, Lest some cracked wretch that cannot read should

write,
And with his clumsy praise undo me quite.

By approbation's loud unmeaning grin,
A Blockhead thought stern Johnson's * heart to win,
Whate'er escaped the Doctor's lips, the Spark
Exclaimed----most witty, yet profound remark!
Sam, whom a Dunce's admiration teased,
Addressed the Coxcomb----Sir it seems you're

pleased,

* Presumptuous as it may be deemed, I cannot but think that Johnson's genius has been overrated. He exhibits no bad specimen of the good effects of a little seasonable bullying; nor is every literary pugilist so fortunate in his bottle holders. But in addition to this, his talents were blazoned by the Church, she being, and with rea on, proud of so orthodox a Champion in a coloured coat; at a time too when Addison was no more, and when her lay defenders were not numerous. His imitation of the third and tenth Satires of Juvenal he never afterwards equalled, and it is melancholy to consider that we are indebted to his necessities for his best efforts. “Ingenii venter, largitor." It was observed by one who knew hiin well, that if fortune had thought fit to place tlie Doctor in a field of clover, he would have lain down and rolled in it.

Or prove, if for themselves they think at all,
In mere absurdities original;
Each yellow leaf that falls, each flower that dies,
These mere describers with a theme supplies.
With microscopic eye, these Nature guage,
And rather spell than read her ample page;
More skilled in words than sentences, they get
No farther still than Nature's alphabet;
What in acuteness * she may gain, their muse
In comprehension is condemned to lose;
They start, Ah labour lost, to win the prize,
Then stopping short, each other criticise.
Thus mongrel curs, while Sportsmen cry—for shame!
Each other worry, when they miss the game.

But in the offing what strange sail appears ? Critics! and Printers ! hail her with three cheers! Fresh from the Tweed she seems, yet falls to leward Tho'steerd by skilful Scott, The Anna Seward. † Freighted with rhymes for England, and we're told Brings Constable's piled quartos in her hold! *

* An eye so acute as to perceive the motion of the hour hand of a clock, would not be able to ascertain the time of the day.

† See Anna Seward's Poetical works, edited by Walter Scott.

$ Mr. Constable is in possession of twelve quarto volumes of this Lady's correspondence, which she observed were but one twelfth part of what she had written.

Like Palinurus, * Scott foresees a wreck,
Yawns at the helm, then 'dozes on the deck.
Death stronger far than Gallery-gods, or men,
Drained not the plethora of Seward's pen.

But ah, to greet them, not a Muse will rise,
Though magazines lift females † to the skies;
Whose Volumes vast, by sleep refreshed in vain,
Just shake their dust off, but to sleep again;
E.chausted Acres are not fertile fields,
Tho' British taste to French politeness yields.

That ample wreath by Sydney borne away,
Left his poor Poet not one sprig of bay ;
Wielding, like Cæsar, both the pen and sword,
His own gazettes his glories best record ;

* Te Palinure petens tibi tristia Somnia portans

Insonti. It will be evident to every reader of this edition of Miss Seward's works, that her Editor, Mr. Scott, foresees the fate of his Cargo, and its “alacrity ir sinking." But having imposed upon himself the task of introducing these “Magnas Nugas" to the public, he has been prudent enough not to do it "

“Magno Conatu.” Considering what the public have a right to expect from that time which such a writer as Mr. Scott may dedicate to literary exertions, I conceive every lover of the muses will exclaim "His vellem nunquam nugis tota ista dedisset tempora."

+ Phyllidas Hissipylas Vatum et plorabile si quid.

See a republication of Mrs. Cowley's Epic Poem the Siege of Acre,

B

In the short pause of fury, blood, and rage, ,
His fire unquench'd illumes his ardent page ;
Fierce from the fervor of the unfinished fight,
With the free spirit of a youthful Knight,
He boldly blazons each brave feat, and name,
And stamps their memory on the scroll of fame.

But lo! the living tempest sweeps the plain,
He springs indignant to the field again;
Again the war-cloud blackens all the beach,
Again he meets it, in the deadly breach!
In vain Napoleon gives the fatal shock,
An heart like thine, O Richard, guards thy Rock ;
That fatal force which makes whole Empires fall,
Finds Acre's ruins an impervious wall.

Such mighty deeds transcend a woman's pen, The rage of combat is a theme for men ;

* Addison, at the request of Lord Godolphin, and in consideration of a sum of money, manufactured into a prem the Battle of Blenheim. This poem was satirically termed a ga. zette in rhime. To say this of Mrs. Cowley's poem would be a compliment, as her hero, Sir Sydney, has evinced in his dispatches the elegance of the Scholar, attempering the fire of the most favoured knight of Chivalry. In short his whole narration is a romance, but written with the sternest pen of Truth. The Port of Acre was formerl, taken by Richard Cour de Lion, in conjunction with Philip; and on this occasion history presents us with a solitary instance of a King of France and England fighting together in defence of one common cause.

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As soon her hand might rule the scythed Car,
As justly paint th’infuriate scenes of War.
In the light sock with sportive ease she treads,
Or graceful follows where fair Burney leads ;
Or, with the Enchantress from the Tuscan cave,
Whence wizard bards oft charmed their Arno's

wave,
Seeks, with the hurried step and gaze of fear,
Udolpho's turrets, * and the forest drear;
But let her not attempt Ulysses' bow,
Nor rashly strive Achilles' lance to throw.

Hail Devon, † hail each rhime re-echoing stream,
Famed for poor poetry, and richest cream!
That might with love of tea the Nine inspire,
While Epic Bards by dozens blow the fire;
Inclosures stop, with geese each common fill,
And send us, Neckingar, thy patent mill; $

* Mrs. Radcliffe's Mysteries of Udolpho, and her Romance of the Forest, the two mightiest efforts of a female pen!

† A Lady at Exeter lately gave a tea party to six Gentlemen; on comparing notes, it came out that

every

individual of this marvellous Symposium had written an Epic Poen. I shall not mention their Names, as their knuckles are still sore from the gentle rapping of some Northern Critics ;- but oa mutually condoling with each other, on this tender subject, they were heard to exclaim, Et nos ergo manum ferulæ subuximus, et nos. This covey of bards was a meeting purely accidental; miserum est cum tut ubique vatibus occurras.

I A Mill invented in Germany, to restore paper spoiled by

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