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Reviews record this epidemic crime,
Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme.
Alas! woe worth the scribbler! often seen
In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine.
There lurk his earlier lays; but soon, hot-press'd,
Behold a quarto!-Tarts must tell the rest.

Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords
To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords,
Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale,
Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale!
Hark to those notes, narcotically soft!

The cobbler-laureats (1) sing to Capel Lofft! (2)
Till, lo! that modern Midas, as he hears,
Adds an ell's growth to his egregious ears!

There lives one druid, who prepares in time 'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme; Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse, To publish faults which friendship should excuse: If friendship's nothing, self-regard might teach More polish'd usage of his parts of speech.

(1) I beg Nathaniel's pardon: he is not a cobbler; it is a tailor, but begged Capel Lofft to sink the profession in his preface to two pair of panta-psha-of cantos, which he wished the public to try on; but the sieve of a patron let it out, and so far saved the expense of an advertisement to his country customers. Merry's "Moorfields whine" was nothing to all this. The "Della Cruscans" were people of some education, and no profession; but these Arcadians (Arcades ambo"-bumpkins both) send out their native nonsense without the smallest alloy, and leave all the shoes and smallclothes in the parish unrepaired, to patch up Elegies on Enclosures and Pæans to Gunpowder. Sitting on a shopboard, they describe fields of battle, when the only blood they ever saw was shed from the finger; and an "Essay on War" is produced by the ninth part of a “poet." "And own that nine such poets made a Tate."

Pratt too

Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope? and, if he did, why not take it as his motto?-[Sce antè, p. 61, note 8.-P. E.] (2) This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excellent shoemakers, and been accessary to the poetical undoing of many of the industrious poor. Nathaniel Bloomfield and his brother Bobby have set all Somersetshire singing; nor has the malady confined itself to one county. (who once was wiser) has caught the contagion of patronage, and decoyed a poor fellow named Blackett into poetry; but he died during the operation, leaving one child and two volumes of Remains utterly destitute. The girl, if she don't take a poetical twist, and come forth as a shoemaking Sappho, may do well: but the " tragedies" are as rickety as if they had been the offspring of an Earl or a Seatonian prize poet. The patrons of this poor lad are certainly answerable for his end; and it ought to be an indictable offence. But this is the least they have done; for, by a refinement of barbarity, they have made the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, by printing what he would have had sense enough never to print himself. Certes these rakers of Remains come under the statute against "resurrection men." What does it signify whether a poor dear dead dunce is to be stuck up in Surgeons' or in Stationers' Hal!? Is it so bad to unearth his bones as his blunders? Is it not better to gibbet his body on a heath, than his soul in an octavo? "We know what we are, but we know not what we may be ;" and it is to be hoped we never shall know, if a man who has passed through life with a sort of éclat, is to find himself a mountebank on the other side of Styx, and be made, like poor Joe Blackett, the laughing-stock of Purgatory. The plea of publication is to provide for the child; now, might not some of this "Sutor ultra crepidam's" friends and seducers have done a decent action without inveigling Pratt into biography? And then his inscription, split into so many modicums!-"To the Duchess of So-much, the Right Hon. So-and-So, and Mrs. and Miss Somebody, these volumes are, etc. etc."--why, this is doling out the "soft milk of dedication" in gills,-there is but a quart, and he divides it among a dozen. Why, Pratt, hadst

But what is shame, or what is aught to him?
He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim.
Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate,
Some folly cross'd, some jest, or some debate;
Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon
The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon.

Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown,
Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town:
alas! 'tis nature in the man-

If
So,
May Heaven forgive you, for he never can!
Then be it so; and may his withering bays
Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise!
While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink,
The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink,
But, springing upwards from the sluggish mould,
Be (what they never were before), be-sold!
Should some rich bard (but such a monster now,
In modern physics, we can scarce allow),
Should some pretending scribbler of the court,
Some rhyming peer (3)—there's plenty of the sort(4)—
All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn,
(Ah! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn!)

thou not a puff left? Dost thou think six families of distinction can share this in quiet? There is a child, a book, and a dedication: send the girl to her grace, the volumes to the grocer, and the dedication to the devil.-[See antè, p. 61.-P. E.] (3) In the original MS.-

"Some rhyming peer-Carlisle or Carysfort."

To which is subjoined this note:-"Of John Joshua, Earl of Carysfort' I know nothing at present, but from an advertisement in an old newspaper of certain Poems and Tragedies by his Lordship, which I saw by accident in the Morea. Being a rhymer himself, he will forgive the liberty I take with his name, seeing, as he must, how very commodious it is at the close of that couplet; and as for what follows and goes before, let him place it to the account of the other Thane; since I cannot, under these circumstances, augur pro or con the contents of his foolscap crown octavos.'"-[John Joshua Proby, first Earl of Carysfort, was joint postmaster-general in 1805, envoy to Berlin in! 1806, and ambassador to Petersburgh in 1807. Besides his poems, he published two pamphlets, to show the necessity of universal suffrage and short parliaments. He died in 1828.-L. E.]

(4) Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce once more to his notice the sole survivor, the "ultimus Romanorum," the last of the Cruscanti-"Edwin" the "profound," by our Lady of Punishment! here he is, as lively as in the days of "well said Baviad the Correct." I thought Fitzgerald had been the tail of poesy; but, alas! he is only the penultimate.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING
CHRONICLE.

What reams of paper, floods of ink,"
Do some men spoil, who never think!
And so perhaps you 'll say of me,
In which your readers may agree.
Still I write on, and tell you why;
Nothing's so bad, you can't deny,
But may instruct or entertain
Without the risk of giving pain:
And, should you doubt what I asser,
The name of Camden I insert.

Who novels read, and oft maintain'd
He here and there some knowledge gain'd:
Then why not I indulge my pen,
Though I no fame or profit gain,
Yet may amuse your idle men;
Of whom, though some may be severe,
Others may read without a sneer?
Thus much premised, I next proceed
To give you what I feel my creed,
And in what follows to display
Some humours of the passing day.

ON SOME MODERN QUACKS AND REFORMISTS.
In tracing of the human mind

Through all its various courses,
Though strange, 'tis true, we often find
It knows not its resources :

Condemn the unlucky curate to recite
Their last dramatic work by candle-light,
How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf,
Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief!
Yet, since 'tis promised at the rector's death,
He'll risk no living for a little breath.

Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line,
(The Lord forgive him!) "Bravo! grand! divine!"
Hoarse with those praises (which, by flattery fed,
Dependence barters for her bitter bread),

He strides and stamps along with creaking boot,
Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot;
Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye,
As when the dying vicar will not die!
Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart;-
But all dissemblers overact their part.

Ye, who aspire to "build the lofty rhyme,” (1) Believe not all who laud your false "sublime;" But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, "Expunge that stanza, lop that line away,” And, after fruitless efforts, you return Without amendment, and he answers, “Burn!" That instant throw your paper in the fire, Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire; But (if true bard!) you scorn to condescend, And will not alter what you can't defend, If you will breed this bastard of your brains, (2)— We'll have no words-I've only lost my pains.

Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought, As critics kindly do, and authors ought; If your cool friend annoy you now and then, And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen;

Si carmina condes,

Nunquam te fallant animi sub vulpe latentes.
Quintilio si quid recitares, "Corrige, sodes,
Hoc (aiebat) et hoc:" melius te posse negares,
Bis terque expertum frustra; delere jubebat,
Bt male tornatos incudi reddere versus.

Si defendere delictum, quam vertere, malles,
Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat inanem,
Quin sine rivali teque et tua solus amares.

Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertes,
Culpabit duros, incomtis allinet atrum
Transverso calamo signum; ambitiosa recidet
Ornamenta: parum claris lucem dare coget:

And men through life assume a part
For which no talents they possess,
Yet wonder that, with all their art,
They meet no better with success.
'Tis thus we see, through life's career,
So few excel in their profession;
Whereas, would each man but appear
In what's within his own possession,
We should not see such daily quacks
(For quacks there are in every art)
Attempting, by their strange attacks,
To meliorate the mind and heart.

Nor mean I here the stage alone,

Where some deserve the applause they meet;
For quacks there are, and they well known
In either House who hold a seat.

Reform's the order of the day, I hear,
To which I cordially assent:
But then let this reform appear,
And every class of men cement.
For if you but reform a few,

And others leave to their full bent,

I fear you will but little do,

And find your time and pains misspent.

Let each man to his post assign'd

By Nature, take his part to act,

And then few causes shall we find

To call each man we meet-a quack."

⚫ For such every man is who either appears to be what he is not, or strives to be what he cannot

No matter, throw your ornaments aside,--
Better let him than all the world deride.
Give light to passages too much in shade,
Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you've made,
Your friend's "a Johnson," not to leave one word,
However trifling, which may seem absurd:

Such erring trifles lead to serious ills,
And furnish food for critics, (3) or their quills.

As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune,
Or the sad influence of the angry moon,
All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues,
As yawning waiters fly (4) Fitzscribble's (5) lungs;
Yet on he mouths-ten minutes-tedious each
As prelate's homily, or placeman's speech;
Long as the last years of a lingering lease,
When riot pauses until rents increase.
While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways,
If by some chance he walks into a well,
And shouts for succour with stentorian yell,
"A rope! help, Christians, as ye hope for grace!"
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace;
For there his carcass he might freely fling,
From frenzy, or the humour of the thing.
Though this has happen'd to more bards than one;
I'll tell you Budgell's story,-and have done.

Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good, (Unless his case be much misunderstood) When teased with creditors' continual claims, "To die like Cato," (6) leapt into the Thames! And therefore be it lawful through the town For any bard to poison, hang, or drown.(7)

Arguet ambiguè dictum: mutanda notabit;
Fiet Aristarchus: nec dicet, "Cur ego amicum
Offendam in nugis."--Ha nuga seria ducent
In mala derisum semel exceptumque sinistre.

Ut mala quem scabies, aut morbus regius urget,
Aut fanaticus error, et iracunda Diana;
Vesanum tetigisse timent fugiuntque poetam,
Qui sapiunt; agitant pueri, incautique sequuntur.
Hic dum sublimes versus ructatur, et errat,
Si veluti merulis intentus decidit auceps
In puteum foveamve; licet "Succurrite," longum
Clamet, "lo cives!" non sit qui tollere curet,
Si quis curet opera ferre, et demittere funem;

(1) See Milton's Lycidas.-L. E.

(2) "Bastard of your brains."- Minerva being the first by Jupiter's head-piece, and a variety of equally unaccountable parturitions upon earth, such as Madoc, etc. etc. etc. "A crust for the critics."-Bayes, in the Rehearsal. And the "waiters" are the only fortunate people who can "fly" from them; all the rest, viz. the sad subscribers to the "Literary Fund," being compelled, by cour tesy, to sit out the recitation without a hope of exclaiming, "Sic" (that is, by choking Fitz. with bad wine, or worse poetry) "me servavit Apollo!"

(5) "Fitzscribble," originally "Fitzgerald." (See p. 49.)—

L. E.

(6) On his table were found these words: "What Cato did, and Addison approved, cannot be wrong." But Addison did not "approve ;" and if he had, it would not have mended the matter. He had invited his daughter on the same water-party; but Miss Budgell, by some accident, escaped this last paternal attention. Thus fell the sycophant of "Atticus," and the enemy of Pope-[Eustace Budgell, a friend and relative of Addison's, "leapt into the Thames" to escape a prosecution, on account of forging the will of Dr. Tindal; in which Eustace had provided himself with a legacy of two thousand pounds. To this Pope alludes:"Let Budgell charge low Grub-street on my quill, And write whate'er he please except my will."-L. E.] (7) "We talked (says Boswell) of a man's drowning him

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Who saves the intended suicide receives

Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves;
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose
The glory of that death they freely choose.

Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse; Dosed (1) with vile drams on Sunday he was found, Or got a child on consecrated ground!

Qui seis an prudens huc se projecerit, atque
Servari nolit? Dicam: Siculique poetæ
Narrabo interitum. Deus immortalis haberi
Dum cupit Empedocles, ardentem frigidus Ætnam
Insiluit. Sit jus, liceatque perire poetis:
Invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti.
Nee semel hoc fecit; nec si retractus erit, jam
Fiet homo, et ponet famosæ mortis amorem.

self.-JOHNSON. I should never think it time to make away with myself.' I put the case of Eustace Budgell, who was accused of forging a will, and sunk himself in the Thames, before the trial of its authenticity came on. Suppose, Sir,' said I, that a man is absolutely sure that, if he lives a few days longer, he shall be detected in a fraud, the consequence of which will be utter disgrace, and expulsion from society?'-JOHNSON. Then, Sir, let him go abroad to

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a distant country; let him go to some place where he is not known. Don't let him go to the devil, where he is known.'" See Croker's Boswell, vol. ii. pp. 229. 290.-L. E.

(I) If "dosed with," etc. be censured as low, I beg leave to refer to the original for something still lower; and if any reader will translate "Minxerit in patrios cineres," etc. into a decent couplet, I will insert said couplet in lieu of the present.

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SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, (2)
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light;

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows;
On old Ægina's rock and Hydra's isle
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis!
Their azure arches through the long expanse,
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep.

(1) This fierce philippic on Lord Elgin, whose collection of Athenian marbles was ultimately purchased for the nation, in 1816, at the cost of thirty-five thousand pounds, was written at Athens, in March, 1811, and prepared for publication along with the Hints from Horace; but, like that satire, suppressed by Lord Byron, from motives which the reader will easily understand. It was first given to the world in 1828. Few can wonder that Lord Byron's feelings should have been powerfully excited by the spectacle of the despoiled Parthenon; but it is only due to Lord Elgin to keep in mind, that, had those precious marbles remained, they must, in all likelihood, have perished for ever amidst the miserable scenes of violence which Athens has since I witnessed; and that their presence in England has already, by universal admission, been of the most essential advantage to the fine arts of our own country. The political

On such an eve his palest beam he cast
When, Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last.
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's (3) latest day!
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill,
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonising eyes,

And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes;
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before;
But ere he sunk below Citheron's head,
The cup of woe was quaff'd—the spirit fled;
The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly,
Who lived and died as none can live or die.

But, lo! from high Hymettus to the plain The queen of night asserts her silent reign; (4) No murky vapour, herald of the storm,

Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form.

allusions in this poem are not such as require much explanation. It contains many lines which, it is hoped, the author, on mature reflection, disapproved of- but is too vigorous a specimen of his iambics to be omitted in any collective edition of his works.-L. E.

(2) The splendid lines with which this satire opens, down to "As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane," first appeared at the commencement of the third canto of the Corsair, the author having, at that time, abandoned all notion of publishing the piece of which they originally made part.-L. E. (3) Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down.

(4) The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of less duration.

With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play,
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And bright around, with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret:
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide,
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, (1)
And sad and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm; (2)
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye;

And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by.(3)

Again the Egean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile.

As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane, I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore, Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore; Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan, Sacred to gods, but not secure from man, The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease, And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece!

Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on high Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky; And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god: But chiefly, Pallas! thine; when Hecate's glare, Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead.^

(I) The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all. (2) This palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the Temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes. Upon the death of Lord Byron it was proposed by Colonel Stanhope that he should be buried at Athens, in the Temple of Theseus; and the Chief, Odysseus, sent an express to Missolonghi to enforce this wish. The design, however, was subsequently abandoned, and the Noble Poet's remains were removed to his country.-P. E.

(3) "During our residence of ten weeks at Athens, there was not, I believe, a day of which we did not devote a part to the contemplation of the noble monuments of Grecian genius, that have outlived the ravages of time, and the outrage of barbarous and antiquarian despoilers. The Temple of Theseus, which was within five minutes' walk of our lodgings, is the most perfect ancient edifice in the world. In this fabric, the most enduring stability, and a simplicity of design peculiarly striking, are united with the highest elegance and accuracy of workmanship; the characteristic of the Doric style, whose chaste beauty is not, in the opinion of the first artists, to be equalled by the graces of any of the other orders. A gentleman of Athens, of great taste and skill, assured us that, after a continued contemplation of this temple, and the remains of the Parthenon, he could never again look with his accustomed satisfaction upon the Ionic and Corinthian ruins of Athens, much less upon the specimens of the more modern species of architecture to be seen in Italy." Hobhouse.-L. E. (4) "On the plaster wall, on the west side of the chapel, these words have been very deeply cut:

QUOD NON FECERUNT GOTI,

HOC FECERUNT SCOTI.

The mortar wall, yet fresh when we saw it, supplying the place of the statue now in Lord Elgin's collection, serves

Long had I mused, and treasured every trace
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race,
When, lo! a giant form before me strode,
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode!
Yes, 'twas Minerva's self; but, ah! how changed
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged!
Not such as erst, by her divine command,
Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic hand:
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow,
Her idle ægis bore no Gorgon now;

Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance
Seem'd weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance;
The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp,
Shrunk from her touch, and wither'd in her grasp;
And, ah! though still the brightest of the sky,
Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye;
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow,
And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe!

[shame

แ Mortal!"-'t was thus she spake-" that blush of
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name:
First of the mighty, foremost of the free,
Now honour'd less by all, and least by me:
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found.
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing?-look around.
Lo! here, despite of war and wasting fire,
I saw successive tyrannies expire.

'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, (4)
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. (5)
Survey this vacant, violated fane;
Recount the relics torn that yet remain:
These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adorn'd, (6)
That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn'd.
What more I owe let gratitude attest-
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest.
That all may learn from whence the plunderer came,
The insulted wall sustains his hated name: (7)

as a comment on this text. This eulogy of the Goths alludes to an unfounded story of a Greek historian, who relates that Alaric, either terrified by two phantoms, one of Minerva herself, the other of Achilles, terrible as when he strode towards the walls of Troy to his friends, or struck with a reverential respect, had spared the treasures, ornaments, and people of the venerable city." Hobhouse.-LE(5) In the original MS.—

"Ah, Athens! scarce escaped from Turk and Goth, Hell sends a paltry Scotchman worse than both.”—L..E. (6) This is spoken of the city in general, and not of the Acropolis in particular. The temple of Jupiter Olympius, by some supposed the Pantheon, was finished by Hadrian; sixteen columns are standing, of the most beautiful marble and architecture.

(7) It is stated by a late oriental traveller, that when the wholesale spoliator visited Athens, he caused his owE name, with that of his wife, to be inscribed on a pillar of one of the principal temples. This inscription was executed in a very conspicuous manner, and deeply engraved in the marble, at a very considerable elevation. Notwithstanding which precautions, some person (doubtless inspired by the Patron Goddess), has been at the pains to get himself raised up to the requisite height, and has obliterated the name of the laird, but left that of the lady untouched. The tra veller in question accompanied this story by a remark, that it must have cost some labour and contrivance to get at the place, and could only have been effected by much zeal and determination.

[On the original MS. is written:

"Aspice quos Pallas Scoto concedit honores,
Infra stat nomen facta supràque vide,
Scote miser: quamvis nocuisti Palladis ædi,
Infandum facinus vindicat ipsa Venus.
Pygmalion statuam pro sponsa arsisse refertur;
Tu statuam rapias, Scote, sed uxor abest.”—P.E.]

For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads,
Below, his name-above, behold his deeds! (1)
Be ever hail'd with equal honour here
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer:
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none,
But basely stole what less barbarians won.
So when the lion quits his fell repast,
Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last:
Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own,
The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone.
Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are cross'd:
See here what Elgin won, and what he lost!
Another name with his pollutes my shrine:
Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine!
Some retribution still might Pallas claim,
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame." (2)

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply,
To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye:
Daughter of Jove! in Britain's injured name,
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim.
Frown not on England; England owns him not:
Athena, no! thy plunderer was a Scot.

Ask'st thou the difference? From fair Phyle's towers
Survey Boeotia ;-Caledonia 's ours.

And well I know within that bastard land (3)
Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command;
A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined
To stern sterility, can stint the mind;
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth,
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth;
Each genial influence nurtured to resist,
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist.
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain,

Till, burst at length, each watery head o'erflows,
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows.
Ten thousand schemes of petulance and pride
Despatch her scheming children far and wide:
Some east, some west, some every where but north,
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth.
And thus-accursed be the day and year!-
She sent a Pict to play the felon here.
Yet Caledonia claims some native worth,
As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar birth;

So may her few, the letter'd and the brave,
Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave,

(1) For Lord Byron's detailed remarks on Lord Elgin's dealing with the Parthenon, see note [A] to the second Canto of Childe Harold, antè, p. 96.—P. E.

(2) His lordship's name, and that of one who no longer bears it, are carved conspicuously on the Parthenon; above, in a part not far distant, are the torn remnants of the basso relievos, destroyed in a vain attempt to remove them.

(3) Irish bastards," according to Sir Callaghan O'Brallaghan.

(4) In 1816, thirty-five thousand pounds were voted by Parliament for the purchase of the Elgin marbles.-L. E.

(5) Mr. West, on seeing the "Elgin Collection" (I suppose we shall hear of the "Abershaw" and "Jack Shephard" collection next), declared himself "a mere tyro" in art.

(6) Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when the marbles were first exhibited at Elgin House: he asked if it was not "a stone-shop?"-He was right; it is a shop.

(7) "Alas! all the monuments of Roman magnificence, all the remains of Grecian taste, so dear to the artist, the historian, the antiquary, all depend on the will of an arbitrary sovereign; and that will is influenced too often by interest or vanity, by a nephew or a sycophant. Is a new palace to be erected (at Rome) for an upstart family? the Coliseum is stripped to furnish materials. Does a foreign

Shake off the sordid dust of such a land,
And shine like children of a happier strand;
As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place,
Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race."

"Mortal!" the blue-eyed maid resumed, "once more Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. Though fallen, alas! this vengeance yet is mine, To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest; Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest.

"First on the head of him who did this deed
My curse shall light, on him and all his seed:
Without one spark of intellectual fire,
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire:
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace,
Believe him bastard of a brighter race:
Still with his hireling artists let him prate,
And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate;
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell,
Whose noblest native gusto is-to sell:
To sell, and make-may Shame record the day!—
The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey. (4)
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard West,
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best,
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er,
And own himself an infant of fourscore. (5)
Be all the bruisers cull'd from all St. Giles',
That art and nature may compare their styles;
While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare,
And marvel at his lordship's 'stone-shop' (6) there.
Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs
creep,

To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep;
While many a languid maid, with longing sigh,
On giant statues casts the curious eye;
The room with transient glance appears to skim,
Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb;
Mourns o'er the difference of now and then ;
Exclaims, 'These Greeks indeed were proper
Draws sly comparisons of these with those,
And envies Laïs all her Attic beaux.
When shall a modern maid have swains like these!
Alas! Sir Harry is no Hercules!

And last of all, amidst the gaping crew,

Some calm spectator, as he takes his view,(7)

men!'

minister wish to adorn the bleak walls of a northern castle with antiques? the temples of Theseus or Minerva must be dismantled, and the works of Phidias or Praxiteles be torn from the shattered frieze. That a decrepit uncle, wrapped up in the religions duties of his age and station, should listen to the suggestions of an interested nephew, is natural; and that an oriental despot should undervalue the masterpieces of Grecian art, is to be expected-though in both cases the consequences of such weakness are much to be lamented; but that the minister of a nation, famed for its knowledge of the language, and its veneration for the monuments of ancient Greece, should have been the prompter and the instrument of these destructions, is almost incredible. Such rapacity is a crime against all ages and all generations: it deprives the past of the trophies of their genius and the title-deeds of their fame; the present, of the strongest inducements to exertion, the noblest exhibitions that curiosity can contemplate; the future, of the masterpieces of art, the models of imitation. To guard against the repetition of such depredations is the wish of every man of genius, the duty of every man in power, and the common interest of every civilized nation."-Eustace's Classical Tour through Italy.

"This attempt to transplant the temple of Vesta from

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