ENGLISH BARDS,

AND

SCOTCH REVIEWERS.

STILL must I hear ?-shall hoarse * FITZGErald bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,

And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews

Should dub me Scribbler, and denounce my Muse?
Prepare for rhyme-I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.

* IMITATION.

« Semper ego auditor tantum ? nunquamne reponam

« Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri?

Juvenal, Satire I.

Mr. FITZGERALD, facetiously termed by COBBETT the << Small Beer Poet, » inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the « Literary Fund »; not content with writing, he spouts in person, after the company have imbibed a reasonable quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the operation.

Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my grey goose-quill!

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 !fore doomed 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!
Condemned 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' spurned by others, yet beloved by me :

Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No Eastern vision, no distempered dream
Inspires-our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain,

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

* CID HAMET BENENGELI promises repose to his pen in the last chapter of DON QUIXOTE. Oh! that our voluminous gentry would follow the example of CID HAMET BENENGELI !

When folly, frequent harbinger of crime,

Unfolds her motley store to suit the time;

30

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 chace,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and Scribblers are my game :
Speed, Pegasus!—ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy, have at you all!

I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time

I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,

A school-boy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
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.
Not that a Title's sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave :

40

50

This LAMB must own, since his Patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious farce from shame.*
No matter, GEORGE Continues still to write+,
Tho' now the name is veiled 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 hackneyed jokes from MILLER, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;

A mind well skilled to find or forge a fault,

A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;

To JEFFREY go, he silent and discreet,

His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet.
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem 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 caressed.

And shall we own such judgment? no-as soon

Seek roses in December, ice in June;

This ingenious youth is mentioned more particularly, with his production, in another place.

In the EDINBURGH REVIEW.

60

70

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;

80

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

* Messrs. JEFFREY and LAMB are the Alpha and Omega, the first and last of the Edinburgh Review; the others are mentioned hereafter.

Juvenal, Sat. 1.

Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrere campo
<< Per quem magnus equos Auruncæ flexit alumnus :
« Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam. »

Juvenal. S. 1.