Even I-least thinking of a thoughtless throng, Just skilled to know the right and chuse the wrong, Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost

To fight my course through Passion's countless host,

Whom every path of Pleasure's flowery way
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray-
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel
Such scenes, such men destroy the public weal:
Altho' some kind, censorious friend will say,
<< What art thou better, meddling fool, than they?»
And every Brother Rake will smile to see
That Miracle, a Moralist in me.

681

No matter when some Bard in virtue strong,
GIFFORD perchance, shall raise the chastening song,
Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice
Be only heard to hail him and rejoice;
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise; though I
May feel the lash that virtue must apply.

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals,
From silly HAFIZ* up to simple BOWLES;

690

What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, HAFIZ, could he rise from his splendid sepulcre at Sheeraz, where he reposes with FERDOUS; and SADI, the Oriental

Why should we call them from their dark abode,
In broad St. Giles's, or in Tottenham Road?
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare

To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street, or the Square?
If things of ton their harmless lays indite,
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight,
What harm? in spite of every critic elf,

Sir T. may read his stanzas, to himself;

MILES ANDREWs still his strength in couplets try,
And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 700
Lords too are Bards: such things at times befal,
And 'tis some praise in Peers to write at all.
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times,
Ah! who would take their titles with their rhyme?
ROSCOMMON! SHEFFIELD! with your spirits fled,
No future laurels deck a noble head;

No Muse will cheer, with renovating smile,
The paralytic puling of CARLISLE :
The puny school-boy and his early lay
Men pardon, if his follies pass away;

710

HOMER and CATULLUS, and behold his name assumed by one STOTT OF DROMORE, the most impudent and execrable of literary poachers for the Daily Prints?

But who forgives the Senior's ceaseless verse,
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse?
What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer!
Lord, rhymester, petit-maître, pamphleteer*!
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age,
His scenes alone had damned our sinking stage;
But Managers for once cried, «hold, enough!»
Nor drugged their audience with the tragic stuff.
Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh,
And case his volumes in congenial calf:
Yes! doff that covering where Marocco shines,
And hang a calf-skin** on those recreant lines.

With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead,
Who daily scribble for your daily bread;

720

The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteenpenny pamphlet on the state of the Stage, and offers his plan for building a new theatre: it is to be hoped his Lordship will be permitted to bring forward any thing for the stage, except his own tragedies.

**« Doff that lion's hide :

<< And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs. »

SHAK: KING JOUN.

Lord C.'s works, most resplendently bound, form a conspicuous ornament to his book-shelves:

The rest is all but leather and prunella. »

With you I war not: GIFFORD's heavy hand
Has crushed, without remorse, your numerous
band.

On, «< all the Talents » went your venal spleen,
Want your defence, let Pity be your screen.
Let Monodies on Fox regale your crew,

And Melville's Mantle* prove a blanket too! 730
One common Lethe waits each hapless Bard,

And peace

peace be with you! 'tis your best reward. Such damning fame as Dunciads only give Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; But now at once your fleeting labours close, With names of greater note in blest repose. Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade, Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, Leave wondering comprehension far behind**. 740 Though CRUSCA's bards no more our journals fill, Some stragglers skirmish round their columns still;

MELVILLE'S Mantle, a parody on «Elijah's Mantle,» a

poem.

** This lively little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew K.---, seems to be a follower of the Della Crusca School, and has published two volumes of very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times go; besides sundry novels in the style of the first edition of the Monk.

Last of the howling host which once was BELL's,
MATILDA snivels yet, and HAFIZ yells;
And MERRY'S metaphors appear anew,
Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q.*

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall,
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl,
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes,
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse, 750
Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds ap-

plaud!

How ladies read, and Literati laud!

If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest,
"Tis sheer ill-nature; don't the world know best?
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme,
And CAPEL LOFFT** declares 'tis quite sublime.
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade!
Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless spade:
Lo! BURNS and BLOOMFIELD***, nay, a greater far,
GIFFORD was born beneath an adverse star,

760
These are the signatures of various worthies who figure

in the poetical department of the newspapers.

**CAPEL LOFFT, Esq. the Mæcenas of shoemakers, and Preface-writer-General to distressed versemen; a kind of gratis Accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of rhyme, but do not know how to bring it forth.

*** See NATHANIEL BLOOMFIELD's ode, elegy, or whatever