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The triumph, and the vanity,

The rapture of the strifeThe earthquake-shout of Victory,

To thee the breath of life;

The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seem'd made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife-

All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!

The Desolator desolate!

The Victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others' fate
A Suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope

That with such change can calmly scope?
Or dread of death alone?

To die a prince-or live a slave-
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!

He who of old would rend the oak,

Dream'd not of the rebound; Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke,

Alone-how look'd he round?—
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength
An equal deed hast done at length,

And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!

The Roman, when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger-dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home.
He dared depart, in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandon'd power.

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;

A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,

His dotage trifled well:
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

But thou-from thy reluctant hand

The thunderbolt is wrung

Too late thou leav'st the high command
To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart,

To see thine own unstrung;

To think that God's fair world hath been
The footstool of a thing so mean;

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,
Who thus can hoard his own!
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb,
And thank'd him for a throne!

Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear

In humblest guise have shown.
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure mankind!
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,

Nor written thus in vain-
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Ör deepen every stain.

If thou hadst died as honour dies,
Some new Napoleon might arise,

To shame the world again-
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?

Weigh'd in the balance, hero-dust
Is vile as vulgar clay;
Thy scales, Mortality! are just
To all that pass away;
But yet methought the living great
Some higher sparks should animate,
To dazzle and dismay;

Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirth
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth!

And She, proud Austria's mournful flower,
Thy still imperial bride;

How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Still clings she to thy side?
Must she too bend, must she too share
Thy late repentance, long despair,

Thou throneless Homicide?

If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem!

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
And gaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile,
It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand,
In loitering mood, upon the sand,
That Earth is now as free!

That Corinth's pedagogue hath now
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow.

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage

What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison'd rage?
But one-"The world was mine:"
Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,

Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd so widely forth-
So long obey'd—so little worth!

Or like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him, the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock!
Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst,
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very Fiend's arch mock;
He in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!

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ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be "turn'd from the career of my humour by quibbles quick, and paper-bullets of the brain," I should have complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none personally, who did not commence on the offensive. An author's works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better.

As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations to render it more worthy of public perusal.

In the first edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted at the request of an ingenious friend of mine, who has now in the press a volume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead: my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner-a determination not to publish with my name

any production which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition.

With regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author that there can be little difference of opinion in the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here censured, renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the author, that some known and able writer had undertaken their exposure; but Mr. GIFFORD has devoted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the regular physician, a country-practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum, to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming.-As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would, indeed, require a Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the author succeeds in merely “bruising one of the heads of the serpent," though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied.

STILL must I hear?-shall hoarse FITZ- The cry is up, and Scribblers are my games GERALD bawl Speed, Pegasus!-ye strains of great and His creaking couplets in a tavern-hall, small, And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews | Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all! Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my I too can scrawl, and once upon a time I pour'd along the town a flood of rhymeA schoolboy - freak, unworthy praise or blame:

Muse?

Prepare for rhyme-I'll publish, right or

wrong:

Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.I printed-older children do the same.
Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A book's a book, altho' there's nothing in't.

quill!

Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my gray goose-Not that a title's sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMB must own, since his patrician

Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent-bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental
throes

Of brains that labour, big with verse or
prose,

Though nymphs forsake, and critics may

deride The lover's solace, and the author's pride: What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise! How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!

Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to
write.

But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be
free;

Tho' spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream
Inspires our path, though full of thorns,
is plain;

Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sove-
reign sway,
And men, through life her willing slaves,
obey;

When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Unfolds her motley store to suit the time;
When knaves and fools combined o'er all
prevail,

When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail,
E'en then the boldest start from public
sneers,

Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from
law.

Such is the force of Wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
Still there are follies e'en for me to chase,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame-

name

Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame.

No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, Tho' now the name is veil'd from public sight.

Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own
review:

Not seek great JEFFREY's—yet, like him,
will be
Self-constituted judge of poesy.

A man must serve his time to every trade,
Save censure-critics all are ready made.
Take hackney'd jokes from MILLER, got by
rote,

With just enough of learning to misquote,
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault;
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;
To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie, 'twill scem a lucky hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for
wit;

Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest,
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd.

And shall we own such judgment? no

as soon

Seek roses in December, ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
Believe a woman, or an epitaph;
Or any other thing that's false, before
You trust in critics who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By JEFFREY's heart, or LAMB's Boeotian
head.

To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste; To these, when authors bend in humble awe, And hail their voice as truth, their word as law; While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare;

While such are critics, why should I forbear?

But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to
shun;

Nor know we when to spare, or where to
strike,

Our bards and censors are so much alike.

Then should you ask me, why I venture

o'er

The path which POPE and GIFFORD trod
before;

If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied, No fabled Graces, flourish'd side by side, From the same fount their inspiration drew, And, rear'd by Taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew.

Then, in this happy isle, a POPE's pure strain
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought
in vain;

A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame.
Like him great DRYDEN pour'd the tide of
song;

In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly
strong;

Then CONGREVE's scenes could cheer, or
OTWAY'S melt-
For nature then an English audience felt.
But why these names, or greater still,
retrace,

When all to feebler bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are
cast,

When taste and reason with those times
are past.
Now look around,and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the

age;

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Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,

This truth at least let Satire's self allow, No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now: Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, The loaded press beneath her labour groans, | The gibbet or the field prepared to graceAnd printers' devils shake their weary bones; A mighty mixture of the great and base. While SOUTHEY's epics cram the creaking And thinkst thou, ScOTT! by vain conceit shelves, perchance, And LITTLE's lyrics shine in hot-press'd On public taste to foist thy stale romance, twelves. Though MURRAY with his MILLER may

Thus saith the Preacher, "nought beneath the sun Is new;" yet still from change to change

we run:

What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare,
Till the swoln bubble bursts-and all is air.
Nor less new schools of poetry arise,
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:

combine

To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line?
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade.
Let such forego the poet's sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre,not for fame:
Low may they sink to merited contempt,
And Scorn remunerate the mean attempt!
Such be their meed,such still the just reward
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard!
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son,
And bid a long “good night to Marmion."

These are the themes that claim our | If still in Berkley Ballads, most uncivil,
plaudits now;
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue:
"God help thee," SOUTHEY, and thy readers

These are the bards to whom the muse
must bow:
While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot,
Resign their hallow'd bays to WALTER SCOTT.

The time has been, when yet the muse was young, When HOMER Swept the lyre and MARO Sung, An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic

name:

The work of each immortal bard appears The single wonder of a thousand years. Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth,

Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth,

Without the glory such a strain can give, As even in ruin bids the language live. Not so with us, though minor bards, content, On one great work a life of labour spent: With eagle-pinion soaring to the skies, Behold the ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise; To him let CAMOENS, MILTON, TASSO, yield, Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.

First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, The scourge of England, and the boast of

France!

Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch,

Behold her statue placed in Glory's niche; Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,

A virgin Phoenix from her ashes risen.
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,
Arabia's monstrous,wild,and wonderous son;
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew
More mad magicians than the world e'er
knew.

Immortal Hero! all thy foes o'ercome,
For ever reign-the rival of Tom Thumb!
Since startled metre fled before thy face,
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy
race!

Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence,

Illustrious conqueror of common sense! Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails,

Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales; Tells us strange tales as other travellers do, More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. Oh! Southey, SOUTHEY! cease thy varied song!

A Bard may chaunt too often and too long: As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare! A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear.

But if, in spite of all the world can say, Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way;

too.

Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May; Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and trouble;

And quit his books, for fear of growing double;"

Who, both by precept and example, shows
That prose is verse,and verse is merely prose,
Convincing all, by demonstration plain,
Poetic souls delight in prose insane;
And Christmas-stories, tortured into rhyme,
Contain the essence of the true sublime:
Thus when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,
The idiot mother of "an idiot boy;"
A moon-struck silly lad who lost his way,
And, like his bard, confounded night with
day,

So close on each pathetic part he dwells,
And each adventure so sublimely tells,
That all who view the "idiot in his glory,"
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.

Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed

here,

To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?
Though themes of innocence amuse him best,
Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest.
If Inspiration should her aid refuse
To him who takes a Pixy for a Muse,
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass
The bard who soars to elegize an ass.
How well the subject suits his noble mind!
"A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind."

Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! Monk, or

Bard, Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a churchyard! Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,

Thy Muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou! Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand,

By gibb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred band;

Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, To please the females of our modest age, All hail, M. P.! from whose infernal brain Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train; At whose command, "grim women" throng in crowds,

And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, With "small grey men," "wild yægers,” and what not,

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