E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal:

Although some kind, censorious friend will

say,

"What art thou better, meddling fool, 76 than they?"

And every brother rake will smile to see

That miracle, a moralist in me.

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.

77

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals
From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles,
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 78 still his strength in couplets try,

And live in prologues, though his dramas die. Lords too are bards, such things at times befall,

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 rhymes ?

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. 79

The puny schoolboy and his early lay
Men pardon, if his follies pass away;

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, and pamphleteer! 80

So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage;

But managers for once cried, "Hold, enough!" Nor drugg'd 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 morocco shines,
And hang a calf-skin on these recreant lines. 81

With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead,
Who daily scribble for your daily bread;
With you I war not: Gifford's heavy hand
Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous
band.

On "all the talents" vent your venal spleen;
Want is your plea, let pity be your screen.
Let monodies on Fox regale your crew,
And Melville's Mantle,82 prove a blanket too!

One common Lethe waits each hapless bard, And, 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 strairs, the faithful echoes of her mind,
Leave wondering comprehension far behind. 83
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill,
Some stragglers skirmish round the columns
still;

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.84

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, 85

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, Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds applaud !

How ladies read, and literati laud !86
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 87 declares 'tis quite sublime.

Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade! Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless spade!

Lo! Burns 88 and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, Gifford was born beneath an adverse star, Forsook the labours of a servile state,

Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over fate :

Then why no more? if Phoebus smiled on

you,

Bloomfield! why not on brother Nathan too? 89

Him too the mania, not the muse, has seized;
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased:

And now no boor can seek his last abode,
No common be enclosed without an ode.
Oh! since increased refinement deigns to
smile

On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle,
Let poesy go forth, pervade the whole,
Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul !

Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong,
Compose at once a slipper and a song ;
So shall the fair your handywork peruse,
Your sonnets sure shall please—perhaps your
shoes.

May Moorland weavers 90 boast Pindaric skill,
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill!
While punctual beaux reward the grateful
notes,

And pay for poems-when they pay for coats.

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due,

Neglected genius! let me turn to you,

Gome forth, oh Campbell! give thy talents scope;

91

Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope?
And thou, melodious Rogers! rise at last,
Recall the pleasing memory of the past;
Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire,
And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre ;
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,

Assert thy country's honour and thine own.
What! must deserted Poesy still weep

Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep?

Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns,

To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns!

No! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood,

The race who rhyme for folly, or for food,
Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast,
Who, least affecting, still affect the most :
Feel as they write, and write but as they
feel-

Bear witness Gifford, 92 Sotheby, 93 Macneil, 94

"Why slumbers Gifford?" once was ask'd
in vain ;

Why slumbers Gifford? let us ask again.95
Are there no follies for his pen to purge?
Are there no fools whose backs demand the
scourge?

Are there no sins for satire's bard to greet?
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street?
Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path,
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath?