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But Crusca still has merit, and may claim 'Tis just-for what three kindred souls have done, No humble station in the ranks of fame;

Is most unfairly charged, I ween, on one. He taught us first the language to refine,

Pardon, my learned friend ! With watery eyes, To crowd with beauties every sparkling line, Thy growing fame to truth I sacrifice; Old phrases with new meanings to dispense, To many a sonnet call thy claims in doubt, Amuse the fancy, and confound the sense! And,“ at one entrance, shut thy glory out.” O, void of reason! Is it thus you praise

Yet mewl thou still. Shall my lord's dormouse die, A linsey-woolsey song, framed with such ease, And low in dust without a requiem lie? Such vacancy of thought, that every line

No, meul thou still : and, while thy d-s join Might tempt e'en Vaughan to whisper, “ This is Their melancholy symphonies to thine, mine!"

My righteous verse shall labour to restore Vaughan! well remember'd. He, good man, The well earned fame it robb'd them of before : complains

Edwin, whatever elegies of wo That I affix'd his name to Edwin's® strains : Drop from the gentle mouths of Vaughan and Co., into plain Mr.—“ has honoured Mr. Tasker's poetical Shall, like a surname, take in all the kind.

To this or that, henceforth no more confined, and other priductions with high and distinguished marks of her approbation.”- Gazetteer, Jan. 16.

Right! cry the brethren. When the heavenWhy this is the very song of Prodicus, TM XEIP TTIV XEL

born muse parrejar-for the rest, I trust my readers will readily Shames her descent, and, for low, earthly views, subscribe to the praises which these most " competent Hums o'er a beetle's bier the doleful stave, agu disinterested judges” have reciprocally lavished upon Or sits chief mourner at a May-bug's grave, each other. But allons !

Satire should scourge her from the vile employ, 6 — My hand, at night's fell noon,

And bring her back to friendship, love, and joy.
Plucks from the tresses of the moon

But spare Cesario,* Carlos,t Adelaide,
A sparkling crown of silvery hue,

The truest poetess! the truest maid !
Besprent with studs of frozen dew!"
* On the dizzy height inclined,
I listen to the passing wind,

laying before the public another effusion of the same exThat loves my mournful song to seize,

quisite pen. And bears it to the mountain breeze."

It will be found, I natter myself, not less beautiful

than the former; and fully prove that the author, though Here we find that listening to the wind, and singing to it, ostensibly devoted to elegy, can, on a proper occasion, are one and the same thing; and thal-bui I can make

assume an air of gayety, and be "profound" with casc, nuthing of the rest.

and instructive with elegance. * When in black obtrusive clouds

Εδουιν προλογίζει.
The chilly moon her pale cheek shrouds,

I mark the twinkling starry train

" On the circumstance of a mastiff's running furiously Exuliing glitter in her wane,

(sad dog!) toward tuo young lalies, anil, v pon coming And proudly gleam iheir borrow'd light

up to them, becoming instantly gentle (good dog !) und To gem the sombre dome of night."

tractable." Whatan admirable observer of nature is this great poetess! Tantum ad narrandum argumentum est benignitas! The stars trinkling in a cloudy night, and gleaming “When Orpheus took his lyre to hell, their botrou ed lustre, is superlatively good. I had almost

To fetch his rib away, fyrzut to observe that these and the preceding lines are

On that same thing he pleased so well, laken from the Ode to the Nightingale, so superior, in the

That devils learn'd to play. reverend judgment of Dr. Tasker, to one of a Mr. John

“Besides, in books it may be read, Milton on the same subject.

That whilst he swept the lute,
-The lightning's rays

Grim Cerberus hung his savage head,
Leap through the night's scarce pervious gloom,

And lay astoundly mute. Attracted by". -(what! for a ducat ?)

But here we can with justice say, * Allracted by the rose's bloom !"

That nature rivals art; "Let but thy lyre impatient seize

He sang a mastiff's rage away, Departing twilight's filmy breeze,

You look'd one through the heart." That winds th' enchanting chords among

Fecit Edwin. In lingering labyrinths of song."

* Cesario. In the Baviad are a few stanzas of a most * See in the clouds its mast the proud bark laves, delectable ode to an owl. They were ascribed to Arno; Scorning the aid of ocean's humble waves!"

nor was I conscious of any mistake, till I received a police From this it appears, that Mrs. Cowley imagines proud note from that gentleman, assuring me that he was not harks to float on their masts. It is proper to mention only not the author of them, but (horresco referens) that that the vessel takes such extraordinary slate on herself, he thought them "execrable." Mr. Bell, on the other because she carries Della Crusca !

hand, affirms them to be “admirable." "From a young grove's shade,

“ Who shall decide when doctors disagree ?" Whose infant boughs but mock th’expecting glade ! Sweet sounds stole forth, upborne upon the gale,

Be this as it may, I am happy to say that I have disco

vered the true author. They were written by Cesario; Press'd through the air, and broke upon the vale ;

and as I rather incline to Mr. Bell, pace Arno dixerim, Then silent walk'd the breezes of the plain,

I shall make no scruple of laying the remainder of this Or svar'd aloft, and seized the hovering strain.”

Della Crusca.

“ mellifluous piece" before the reader.

« Slighted love the soul subduing, The force of fully can no farther go!

Silent sorrow chills the heart, Edwin's strains.-If the reader will turn to the con.

Treacherous fancy still pursuing, clusion of the Bariad, he will find a delicious Etiradrov

Still repels the poison'd dart. on a tame mouse, by this gentleman. As it seemed to give universal satisfaction, I embrace the opportunity of † See note t, Ist col. p. 178. # See note 4, ib.

Lorenzo,s Reuben,|| spare : far be the thought
Of interest, far from them. Unbribed, unbought,

They pourq“ from their big breast's prolific zone
A proud, poetic fervour, only known

Soothing those fond dreams of pleasure, age," who, from her flippant nonsense, appears to be Pictured in the glowing breast,

Mrs. Piozzi, were it not for the sake of remarking, that, Lavish of her sweetest treasure,

whatever be the merit of " drawing out the fine powers Anxious fear is charm'd to rest.

of Arno," (which, it seems, this ungrateful country has "Fearless o'er the whiten'd billoros,

not yet rewarded with a statue,) she must be content to Proudly rise, sweet bird night,

share it with Julia. Hear her invocation--but first hear Safely through the bending willoos,

Mr. Bell. "A most elegant compliment, which for geneGently wing thy aery flight."--Cesario. rous esteem has been seldom equalled, any more than Though I fatter myself that I have good sense and taste

the muse which inspired it." enough to see and admire the peculiar beauties of this

" JULIA TO ARNO. ode, yet a regard for truth obliges me lo declare that they "Arno! where steals thy dulcet lay, are not original. They are taken (with improvements,

Soft as the evening's minstrel note, I confess) from a most beautiful “ Song by a person of Say, does it deck the rising day, quality," in Pope's Miscellanies. This, though it de

Or on the noontide breezes tioat?" tracts a little froin Cesario's inventive powers, still leaves him the praise (10 mean one) of having gone Julia) has been guilty of a trifling larceny here ; havin:

Mrs. Robinson (for we may as well drop the name of beyond that great poet, in what he probably considered as the ne plus ultra of ingenuity.

taken from the Baviad, without any acknowledgment, Venimus ad summum fortunæ ! Mr. Greathead equals have been seen out of that poem; but so it is, that, like

a delicious couplet, which I flattered myself would never Shakspeare, Mrs. Robinson surpasses Milion, and Cesario outdves Pope in that very performance which he

Pope, vainly imagined so complete as to take away all desire

-Write whate'er I will, of imitating, all possibility of excelling it!

Some rising genius sins up to it still." "O favour'd clime! O happy age !":

This has nettled me a little, and possibly injured the + Carlos.-I have nothing of this gentleman (a most

great poetess in my opinion ; for I have been robhed so pertinacious scribbler in the Oracle) but the following

often of late, that I begin to think with the old economist “sonnet;" luckily, however, it is so ineffably stupid, that

Ούτος αοιδων λωστος ος εξ εμευ οισεται ουδεν. . it will more than satisfy any readers but Mr. Bell's. For the rest, this “elegant invocation" called forth a " ON A LADY'S PORTRAIT.

specimen of Arno's fine powers in the following dulid

lays. “On hath the poet hail'd the breath of morn,

« ARXO TO JULIA. That wakens nature with the voice of spring, And oft, when purple summer feeds the lawn,

“ Sure some dire star inimical to man, Hath fancy touch'd him with her procreant wing;

Guides to his heart the desolating fire, Full frequent has he bless'd the golden beam

Fills with contention only his brief span, Which yellow autumn glowing spreads around,

And rouses him to murderous desire. And though pale winter press'd a paly gleam,

“ There are who sagely scan the tortured world, Fresh in his breast was young description found."

And tell us war is but necessity, I can copy no more-Job himself would lose all patience

That millions by the Great Dispenser hurl'd, here. Instead, therefore, of the remainder of this incom

Must suffer by the scourge, and cease to be." prehensible trash, I will give the reader a string of judi

Euge, Poela! cious observations by Mr. T. Vaughan : “Bruyere says, & Lorenzo he will allow that good writers are scarce enough, but Και πως εγω Σθενελου φαγοιμαν ρημα τι, adds, and justly, that good critics are equally so: which Εις οξος εμβαπτομενον, η λευκους αλαςreminds our correspondent also of what the Abbé Trublet Says a hungry wight in an old comedy. But I know of aprites, speaking of professed critics, where he says, if

no seasoning whatever, capable of making the insipid they were obliged to examine authors impartially

garbage of this modern Sthenelus palatable; I shall there would be fewer writers in this way. Was this to

therefore spare myself the disgust of producing it. be the liberal practice adopted by our modern critics, we should not see a Baviad-falling upon men and things cit

" being this gentleman's fate, like Hercules of old, to

|| Reuben, whom I take to be Mr. Greathead in disguise, that are much above his capacity, and seemingly for no other reason than because they are so."

assume the merit of all unappropriated prodigies,) introA Daniel come to judgment, yea, a Daniel! This is in duced himself to the World by the following truth the reason; and when Mr. Vaughan and his coad.

ADDRESS TO ANNA MATILDA. jutors condescend to humble themselves to my under " To thee a stranger dares address his theme, standing, I will endeavour to profit by their eloquent To thee, proud mistress of Apollo's lyre, strictures.

One ray emitted from thy golden gleam, 1 Adelaide.-And who is Adelaide ? O seri studiorum ! Prompted by love, would set the world on fire! “Not to know her, argues yourselves unknown." Hear "Adorn then love in fancy-tinctured vest, Mr. Bell, the Longinus of newspaper writers.

Chameleon like, anon of various hue, " ADELAIDE.

By Penseroso and Allegro dressid, “He who is here addressed by the first lyric writer in

Such genius claim'd when she Idalia drew."the kingdom, must himself endeavour to repay a debt so Anna Matilda, what could she less! found highly honourable, if it can be done by verse! This lady

* This resuscitating praise shall have the praise which ought to be given by the

Breathe life upon her dying lays," country, that of first discovering and drawing out the like "the daisy which spreads her bloom to the moist fine powers of Arno and Della Crusca.”

evening!" and accordingly produced a matchless “ adorn“O) thou, whom late I watch'd, while o'er thee hung ment of love," to the great contentment of the gentle The orb whose glories I so oft have sung,

Reuben. Beheld thee while a shower of beam

“But, bard polite, how hard the task Made night a lovelier morning seem," &c

Which with such elegance you ask !" We might here dismiss this “first lyric writer of the Who would have imagined that these lines, the simple § See nole , next col. 1| See note ll, ib.

Sce note 9, 1st col. p. 179.


To souls like theirs ;" as Anna's youth inspires, And chased the oppressive doubts which round me As Laura's graces kindle fierce desires,

clung, As Henriet-For heaven's sake, not so fast. And fired my breast, and loosen'd all my tongue. I too, my masters, ere my teeth were cast, E’en then (admire, John Bell! my simple ways) Had learn'd, by rote, to rave of Delia's charms, No heaven and hell danced madly through my lays, To die of transports found in Chloe's arms, No oaths, no execrations; all was plain : Coy Daphne with obstreperous plaints to woo, Yet, trust me, while thy “ever-jingling train” And curse the cruelty of—God knows who. Chime their sonorous woes with frigid art, When Phæbus, (not the power that bade thee write, And shock the reason, and revolt the heart, For he, dear Dapper! was a lying sprite,)

My hopes and fears, in nature's language dress’d, One morn, when dreams are true, approach'd my side, Awaken'd love in many a gentle breast. And, frowning on my tuneful lumber, cried,

How oft, 0 Dart! what time the faithful pair * Lo ! every corner with soft sonnets crammid, Walk'd forth, the fragrant hour of eve to share, And high-born odes, works damnd, or to be On thy romantic banks have my wild strains,* damn'd!

Not yet forgot amid my native plains,
And is thy active folly adding more
To this most worthless, most superfluous store ?

* Mr. Parsons is extremely angry at my

ostentatious O impotence of toil! thou mightst as well

intrusion" of the "Otium Divos" into the notes on this poem.

What could I do? I ever disliked publishing my Give sense to Este, or modesty to Bell.

little modicums on loose pages-but I shall grow wiser lly Forbeur, forbear:-What though thou canst not his example ! and, indeed, am even now composing a one claim

riddle, two rebusses, and one acrostic to a babe at The sacred honours of a POET's name,

nurse," which will be set forth with all convenient Due to the few alone, whom I inspire

speed. Meanwhile I am tempted to offend once more', With lofty rapture, with ethereal fire !

and suhjoin the only three of my " wild strains” that now

live in my recollection. I can assure Mr. Parsons that Yet mayst thou arrogate the humble praise

they were written on the occasions they profess to beof reason's bard, if, in thy future lays,

and the last of them at a time when I had no idea of Plain sense and truth, and surely these are thine, surviving to provoke his indignation : Correct thy wanderings, and thy flights confine.”

-Sed Cynara breves

Annos fata dederunt, me
Flere ceased the god and vanish’d. Forth I sprang,

Servatura diu.
While in my ear the voice divine yet rang,
Seized every rag and scrap, approach'd the fire,

Sweet flowers ! that, from your humble beds,
And saw whole Albums in the blaze expire.

Thus prematurely dare to rise, Then shame ensued, and vain regret, t' have spent And trust your unprotected heads So many hours (hours which I yet lament)

To cold Aquarius' watery skies; In thriftless industry ; and year on year

Retire, retire! These tepid airs Inglorious roll'd, while diffidence anıl fear

Are not the genial brood of May; Repressid my voice-unheard till Anna came,

That sun with light malignant glares,
What! throbb'st thou YET, my bosom, at the name?

And flatters only to betray.
Stern winter's reign is not yet past-

Lo! while your buds prepare to blow,
Iritate of gratitude to genius, should nearly occasion “a

On icy pinions comes the blast, perdition of souls ?" Yet so it was. They unfortunately

And nips your root, and lays you low. roused the jealousy of Della Crusca “on the sportive

Alas, for such ungenile doom! banks of the Rhone.” One luckless evening

But I will shield you; and supply When twilight on the western edge

A kindlier soil on which to bloom, Had twined his hoary hair with sabling sedge,”

A nobler bed on which to die. as he was "weeping" (for, like Master Stephen, these

Come then-ere yet the morning ray good creatures think it necessary to be always melan

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, choly) at the tomb of Laura, he started, as well he might, And drawn your balmiest sweets away; at the accursed name of Reuben.

O come, and grace my Anna's breast.
“ Hark! (quoth he,)

Ye droop, fond flowers! but, did ye know
What cruel sounds are these

What worth, what goodness there reside,
Which float upon the languid breeze,

Your cups with liveliest tints would glow,
Which fill my soul with jealous fear ?

And spread their leaves with conscious pride.
Ha! Reuben is the name I hear.

For there has liberal nature join'd
For him my faithless Anna," &c.

Her riches to the stores of art,
It pains me to add, that the cold blooded Bell has de-

And added to the vigorous mind stroyed this beautiful fancy-scene with one stroke of his

The soft, the sympathizing heart. clownish pen. In a note on the above verses, Album,

Come then-ere yet the morning ray p 131, he officiously informs us that Della Crusca knew

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, * nothing of his rival, till he read-detested word !_"his

And drawn your baliniest sweets away; sonnet in the Oracle.” O Bell! Bell! is it thus thou humblest the strains of the sublime ? Surely we may say

O come, and grace my Anna's breast. of thee, what was not ill said of one of thy sisters,

O! I should think,-that fragrant bed

Might I but hope with you to share,-
Sed tu insulsa male et molesta vives,

Years of anxiety repaid,
Per quam non licet esse negligentem.

By one short hour of transport there.
They pour, &c.
I love so well

1 See “one epigram, two sonnets, and one ode to a boy at school, by W.

Panons, Esq." The “one ode" was expressly written to show the folly and Thy soul's deep tone, thy thought's high swell,

absurdity of Gray's ode to Eton Collere, which the “boy at school" was Thy proud, poetic fervour, known

very properly called to attest. What the one epigranı" and the “two son. But in thy breast's prolific zone."-Della Crusca. nets" were written for bobody knows,

While thou hast sweetly gurgled down the vale,
Filld up the pause of love's delightful tale!
While, ever as she read, the conscious maid,
By faltering voice and downcast looks betray'd,
Would blushing on her lover's neck recline,
And with her finger-point the tenderest line.
But these are past: and, mark me, Laura ! time,
Which made what then was venial, now a crime,
To more befitting cares my thoughts confined,
And drove, with youth, its follies from my mind,

Since this, while Merry and his nurslings die,
Thrill'd by the liquid peril of an eye ;*
Gasp at a recollection, and drop down
At the long streamy lightning of a frown;
I soothe, as humour prompts, my idle vein,
In frolic verse, that cannot hope to gain
Admission to the Album, or be seen
In L-'s Review, or Urban's Magazine.

0, for thy spirit, Pope! Yet why, my lays, Which wake no envy, and invite no praise,

More bless'd than me, thus shall ye live

Your little day; and, when ye die, Sweet flowers! the grateful muse shall give

A verse; the sorrowing maid, a sigh. While I, alas! no distant date,

Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate,

Without a stone to tell my name.

So hours like moments wing'd their flight,

Till now the boatman, on the shore, Impatient of the waning light,

Recall'd us by the dashing oar. Well, Anna,-many days like this

I cannot, inust not hope to share ; For I have found an hour of bliss

Still follow'd by an age of care Yet oft, when memory intervenes But

you, dear maid, be happy still, Nor e'er regret, 'ınid fairer scenes,

The day we pass'd on Greenwich Hill.



First of May. Though clouds obscured the morning hour,

And keen and eager blew the blast, And drizzling sell the cheerless shower,

As, doubtful, to the skiff we pass'd; All soon, propitious to our prayer,

Gave promise of a brighter day: The clouds dispersed in purer air,

The blast in zephyrs died away. So have we, love, a day enjoy'd,

On which we both,--and yet, who knows ?-May dwell with pleasure unalloy'd

And dread no thorn beneath the rose.
How pleasant, from that dome-crown'd hill

To view the varied scene below,
Woods, ships, and spires, and, lovelier still,

The circling Thames' majestic flow!
How sweet, as indolently laid,

We overhung that long-drawn dale, To watch the checker'd light and shade

That glanced upon the shifting sail ! And when the shadow's rapid growth

Proclaim'd the noontide hour expired, And, though unwearied, 'nothing loath,'

We to our simple meal retired; The sportive wile, the blameless jest,

The careless mind's spontaneous flow, Gave to that simple meal a zest

Which richer tables may not know.The babe that, on the mother's breast,

Has uy'd and wanton’d for a while, And, siuking to unconscious rest,

Looks up to catch a parting smile, Feels less assured than thou, dear maid

When, ere thy ruby lips could part, (As close to mine thy cheek was laid,)

Thine eyes had open'd all thy heart. Then, then I mark'd the chasten'd joy

That lightly o'er thy features stole, From vows repaid, (my sweet employ,)

From truth, from innocence of soul : While every word dropp'd on my ear,

So soft, (and yet it seems to thrill,) So sweet, that 'twas a heaven to hear,

And c'en thy pause had music still.--
And O! how like a fairy dream,

To gaze in silence on the ride,
While soft and warm the sunny gleam

Slept on the glassy surface wide!
And many a thought of fancy bred,

Wild, soothing, tender, undefined, Play'd lightly round the heart, and shed

Delicious languor o'er the mind.

I wish I was where Anna lies,

For I am sick of lingering here;
And every hour affection cries,

Go, and partake her humble bier.
I wish I could! For when she died,

I lost my all; and life has proved,
Since that sad hour, a dreary void,

A waste unlovely and unloved.-
But who, when I am turn'd to clay,

Shall duly to her grave repair,
And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds that have no business there »
And who, with pious hand, shall bring

The flowers she cherishid, snow-drops cold,
And violets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould ?
And who, while memory loves to dwell

Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,

And pour the bitter, biller tear ?
I did it; and, woulil fate allow,

Should visit still, should still deplore-
But health and strength have left ine now,

And I, alas! can weep no more.
Take then, sweet maid, this simple strain,

The last I offer at thy shrine ;
Thy grave must then undeck'd remain,

And all thy memory fade with mine.
And can thy sofi, persuasive look,

Thy voice, that might with music vie,
Thy air, that every gazer took,

Thy matchless eloquence of eye ;
Thy spirits, frolicsome as good,

Thy courage, by no ills dismay'd,
Thy patience, by no wrongs subdued,

Thy gay good-humour-Can they · fade ?
Perhaps—but sorrow dims my eye:

Cold turf, which I no more must view,
Dear name, which I no more must sigh,

A long, a last, a sad adieu !
* Thrillid, &c.
“Bid the streamy lightnings fly

In liquid peril from thy eye."-Della Crusca. “ Ne'er shalt thou know to sigh,

Or on a soft idea die,
Ne'er on a recollection grasp
Thy arms."-Ohe ! jam satis es!.-Anna Matilda.



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Half creeping and half Aying, yet suffice

(Dear to the feeling heart,) in doubt to win To stagger impudence and ruffle vice.

The vacant wanderer ’mid the unceasing din An hour may come, so I delight to dream, Of this hoarse rout; I seized at length the wand; When slowly wandering by the sacred stream, Resolved, though small my skill, though weak my Majestic Thames ! I leave the world behind,

hand, And give to fancy all th' enraptured mind : The mischief, in its progress, to arrest, An hour may come, when I shall strike the lyre And exorcise the soil of such a pest. To nobler themes ; then, then the chords inspire HENCE! IN THE NAME—I scarce had spoke, when With thy own harmony, most sweet, most strong,

lo ! And guide my hand through all the maze of song! Reams of outrageous sonnets,* thick as snow, Till then, enough for me, in such rude strains As mother-wit can give, and those small pains indeed, replied the shepherd; but thy silence alone is the A vacant hour allows, to range the town,

cause of it. And hunt the clamorous brood of folly down;

“ There's comfort yet!" Force every head, in Este's despite, to wear

* Reams of outrageous sonnets.-Of these I have colThe cap and bells by nature planted there ;

lected a very reasonable quantity, which I purpose to

prefix to some future edition of the Mæviad, under the Muffle the rattle, seize the slavering sholes,

classic head of And drive them, scourged and whimpering, to their

Burgoyne,* perhaps, unchill’d by creeping age,
May yet arise and vindicate the stage ;

The reign of nature and of sense restore,
And be—whatever Terence was before.

Meanwhile I shall present the reader with the first two And you, too, whole Menander !+ who combine

which occur, as a specimen of the collection.

With his pure language, and his flowing line,
The Soul of comedy, may steal an hour

To the anonymous author of the Baviad, occasioned by From the foul chase of still escaping power ;

his scurrilous and most unmerited attack on Mr. WesThe poet and the sage again unite,

Demon of darkness! whosoe'er thou art, And sweetly blend instruction with delight.

That darest assume the brighter angel's form, And yet Elfrida's bard, though time has shed And o'er the peaceful vale impel the storm, The snow of age too deeply round his head,

With many a sigh to rend the honest heart, Feels the kind warmth, the fervour which inspired

Force from th' unconscious eye the tear to start, Ilis youthful breast, still glow uncheck’d, untired :

And with just pride th’indignant bosom warm;

Avaunt ! to where unnumber'd spirits swarm, And yet though, like the bird of eve, his song

Foul and malignant as thyself, depart. « Fit audience finds not” in the giddy throng, Genius of Pope, descend, ye servile crew The notes, though artful, wild, though numerous,

Of imitators vile, intrude not!!! I appeal chaste,

To thee, and thee alone, from outrage base ; Fill with delight the sober ear of taste.

Tell me, though fair the forms his fancy drew,

Shouldst thou the secrets of his heart reveal, But these, and more, I could with honour name, Would fame his memory crown, or cover with dig. Too proud to stoop, like me, to vulgar game,


J. M.-Gent. Mag. Aug. 1792. Subjects more worthy of their daring choose, This poor driveller, who is stupid enough to be Weston's And leave at large th' abortions of the muse. admirer, and malignant enough to be his friend, I take Proud of their privilege, the innumerous spawn,

to be one Morley;" whom I now and then observe, in the From bogs and fens, the mire of Pindus, drawn,

1 I was right. Mr. Morley, who, I understand, is a clergyman, and who, New vigour feel, new confidence assume,

like Mr. Parsons, exults in the idea of having first attacked me, has since And swarm, like Pharaoh's frogs, in every room. published a “Tale," the wit, or rather dulness of which, if I recollect right, Sick of th' eternal croaks, which, ever near,

consists in my being disappointed of a living.

Here follow a few of the introductory lines, which for poetry and pleaBeat like the death-watch on my tortured ear ; santry can only be exceeded by those of Mr. Parsons. And sure, too sure, that many a genuine child

“What if a little once I did abuse thee? of truth and nature check'd his wood-notes wild,

Worse than thou hadst deserved I conld not use thee :
For when I spied thy satyr's cloven foot,

'Tis very true I took thee for a brute; * Burgoyne. -See note *, 2. col. p. 174.

And, marking more attentively thy manners, † And you, too, whole Menander, &c.-O spem fallacem!

I since have wish'd thy bide were at the tanner's. Our Menander has since “ stolen an hour” (it would be

But if a man thou art, as some suppose, Injustice to suppose it more) from public pursuits, and

0! how my fingers itch to pull thy nose !

As pleased as Punch, 1d hold it in my gripe, pristituted it to the reproduction of a German sooterkin.

Till Parkinson had stuf'd thee for a snipe !!!" Check'd hiswood-notes wild.-ExWinoavtwy kodorov, It is rather singular that this still-born lump of insipidity should be introeeOvTAI KUkvot. But this is better illustrated in a most duced to the bookseller under the auspices of Dr. Part. If that respectable elegant fable of Lessing, to which I despair of doing jus. name was not abused on the occasion, I can only say that politics, like misery, lice in a translation.

“bring a man acquainted with strange bedfellows!"

For the rest, I will present Mr. Morley with a couple of lines, which, - Du zürnest, Liebling der Musen,” &c. &c.

if he will get them construed, and seriously reflect upon, before he next puts Thou art troubled, darling of the Muses, thou art pen to paper, may be of more service to him than all the instruction, and all troubled at the clamorous swarms of insects which infest the encouragement the Doctor, apparently, ever gave him. Parnassus. O hear from me what once the nightingale

Cur ego laborem notus esse tam prave, heard from the shepherd.

Cum stare gratis cum silentio possim ! Sing then, said he to the silent songstress, one lovely this note (which I have left in its original state) has given him some slight

I find, from a letter which my publisher has received from Dr. Parr, that evening in the spring, sing then, sweet nightingale! Alas!

degree of uneasiness. said the nightingale, the frogs croak so loud, that I have

It is satisfactory to me to reflect that this uneasiness is founded on a misb-»st all desire to sing: dost thou not hear them ? I do, I apprehension. When I remarked on the singularity of Mr. Morley's 'Tale!

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