I Had Rather Be A Kitten, And Cry, Mew! Than One Of These Same Metre Ballad-Mongers. - Shakespeare. "Such Shameless Bards We Have; And Yet 'Tis True, There Are As Mad, Abandon'D Critics, Too." - Pope. Preface [A] All My Friends, Learned And Unlearned, Have Urged Me Not To Publish This Satire With My Name. If I Were To Be "Turned 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 By, And Inserted At The Request Of, An Ingenious Friend Of Mine, [B] 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 [C] 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 Over-Rated, 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 An 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. A: The Preface, As It Is Here Printed, Was Prefixed To The Second, Third, And Fourth Editions Of 'English Bards, And Scotch Reviewers'. The Preface To The First Edition Began With The Words, "With Regard To The Real Talents," Etc. The Text Of The Poem Follows That Of The Suppressed Fifth Edition, Which Passed Under Byron'S Own Supervision, And Was To Have Been Issued In 1812. From That Edition The Preface Was Altogether Excluded. In An Annotated Copy Of The Fourth Edition, Of 1811, Underneath The Note, "This Preface Was Written For The Second Edition, And Printed With It. The Noble Author Had Left This Country Previous To The Publication Of That Edition, And Is Not Yet Returned," Byron Wrote, In 1816, "He Is, And Gone Again." - Ms. Notes From This Volume, Which Is Now In Mr. Murray'S Possession, Are Marked - B., 1816. B: John Cam Hobhouse. C: Preface To The First Edition. Introduction To English Bards, And Scotch Reviewers. The Article Upon 'Hours Of Idleness' "Which Lord Brougham ... After Denying It For Thirty Years, Confessed That He Had Written" ('Notes From A Diary', By Sir M. E. Grant Duff, 1897, Ii. 189), Was Published In The 'Edinburgh Review' Of January, 1808. 'English Bards, And Scotch Reviewers' Did Not Appear Till March, 1809. The Article Gave The Opportunity For The Publication Of The Satire, But Only In Part Provoked Its Composition. Years Later, Byron Had Not Forgotten Its Effect On His Mind. On April 26, 1821, He Wrote To Shelley: "I Recollect The Effect On Me Of The Edinburgh On My First Poem: It Was Rage And Resistance And Redress: But Not Despondency Nor Despair." And On The Same Date To Murray: "I Know By Experience That A Savage Review Is Hemlock To A Sucking Author; And The One On Me (Which Produced The 'English Bards', Etc.) Knocked Me Down, But I Got Up Again," Etc. It Must, However, Be Remembered That Byron Had His Weapons Ready For An Attack Before He Used Them In Defence. In A Letter To Miss Pigot, Dated October 26, 1807, He Says That "He Has Written One Poem Of 380 Lines To Be Published In A Few Weeks With Notes. The Poem ... Is A Satire." It Was Entitled 'British Bards', And Finally Numbered 520 Lines. With A View To Publication, Or For His Own Convenience, It Was Put Up In Type And Printed In Quarto Sheets. A Single Copy, Which He Kept For Corrections And Additions, Was Preserved By Dallas, And Is Now In The British Museum. After The Review Appeared, He Enlarged And Recast The 'British Bards', And In March, 1809, The Satire Was Published Anonymously. Byron Was At No Pains To Conceal The Authorship Of 'English Bards, And Scotch Reviewers', And, Before Starting On His Pilgrimage, He Had Prepared A Second And Enlarged Edition, Which Came Out In October, 1809, With His Name Prefixed. Two More Editions Were Called For In His Absence, And On His Return He Revised And Printed A Fifth, When He Suddenly Resolved To Suppress The Work. On His Homeward Voyage He Expressed, In A Letter To Dallas, June 28, 1811, His Regret At Having Written The Satire. A Year Later He Became Intimate, Among Others, With Lord And Lady Holland, Whom He Had Assailed On The Supposition That They Were The Instigators Of The Article In The 'Edinburgh Review', And On Being Told By Rogers That They Wished The Satire To Be Withdrawn, He Gave Orders To His Publisher, Cawthorn, To Burn The Whole Impression. A Few Copies Escaped The Flames. One Of Two Copies Retained By Dallas, Which Afterwards Belonged To Murray, And Is Now In His Grandson'S Possession, Was The Foundation Of The Text Of 1831, And Of All Subsequent Issues. Another Copy Which Belonged To Dallas Is Retained In The British Museum. Towards The Close Of The Last Century There Had Been An Outburst Of Satirical Poems, Written In The Style Of The 'Dunciad' And Its Offspring The 'Rosciad', Of These, Gifford'S 'Baviad' And 'Maviad' (1794-5), And T. J. Mathias' 'Pursuits Of Literature' (1794-7), Were The Direct Progenitors Of 'English Bards, And Scotch Reviewers', The 'Rolliad' (1794), The 'Children Of Apollo' (Circ. 1794), Canning'S 'New Morality' (1798), And Wolcot'S Coarse But Virile Lampoons, Must Also Be Reckoned Among Byron'S Earlier Models. The Ministry Of "All The Talents" Gave Rise To A Fresh Batch Of Political 'Jeux D'?Sprits', And In 1807, When Byron Was Still At Cambridge, The Air Was Full Of These Ephemera. To Name Only A Few, 'All The Talents', By Polypus (Eaton Stannard Barrett), Was Answered By 'All The Blocks, An Antidote To All The Talents', By Flagellum (W. H. Ireland); 'Elijah'S Mantle, A Tribute To The Memory Of The R. H. William Pitt', By James Sayer, The Caricaturist, Provoked 'Melville'S Mantle, Being A Parody On ... Elijah'S Mantle'. 'The Simpliciad, A Satirico-Didactic Poem', And Lady Anne Hamilton'S 'Epics Of The Ton', Are Also Of The Same Period. One And All Have Perished, But Byron Read Them, And In A Greater Or Less Degree They Supplied The Impulse To Write In The Fashion Of The Day. 'British Bards' Would Have Lived, But, Unquestionably, The Spur Of The Article, A Year'S Delay, And, Above All, The Advice And Criticism Of His Friend Hodgson, Who Was At Work On His 'Gentle Alterative For The Reviewers', 1809 (For Further Details, See Vol. I., 'Letters', Letter 102, 'Note' 1), Produced The Brilliant Success Of The Enlarged Satire. 'English Bards, And Scotch Reviewers' Was Recognized At Once As A Work Of Genius. It Has Intercepted The Popularity Of Its Great Predecessors, Who Are Often Quoted, But Seldom Read. It Is Still A Popular Poem, And Appeals With Fresh Delight To Readers Who Know The Names Of Many Of The "Bards" Only Because Byron Mentions Them, And Count Others Whom He Ridicules Among The Greatest Poets Of The Century. English Bards And Scotch Reviewers. [1] Still [2] Must I Hear? - Shall Hoarse [3] 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. 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! Foredoomed 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 [4] Shall Be Free; Though Spurned By Others, Yet Beloved By Me: Then Let Us Soar To-Day; No Common Theme, No Eastern Vision, No Distempered Dream [5] 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, Obey'D By All Who Nought Beside Obey; When Folly, Frequent Harbinger Of Crime, Bedecks Her Cap With Bells Of Every Clime; When Knaves And Fools Combined O'Er All Prevail, And Weigh Their Justice In A Golden Scale; 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! I 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, 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 Schoolboy 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: This Lamb [6] Must Own, Since His Patrician Name Failed To Preserve The Spurious Farce From Shame. [7] No Matter, George Continues Still To Write, [8] 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, [9] Got By Rote, With Just Enough Of Learning To Misquote; A Man Well Skilled 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 Seem A Sharper 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. [10] 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; [11] 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, [12] Why I Venture O'Er The Path Which Pope And Gifford [13] Trod Before; If Not Yet Sickened, You Can Still Proceed; Go On; My Rhyme Will Tell You As You Read. "But Hold!" Exclaims A Friend, - "Here'S Some Neglect: This - That - And T'Other Line Seem Incorrect." What Then? The Self-Same Blunder Pope Has Got, And Careless Dryden - "Aye, But Pye Has Not:" - Indeed! - 'Tis Granted, Faith! - But What Care I? Better To Err With Pope, Than Shine With Pye. [14] Time Was, Ere Yet In These Degenerate Days [15] Ignoble Themes Obtained Mistaken Praise, When Sense And Wit With Poesy Allied, No Fabled Graces, Flourished Side By Side, From The Same Fount Their Inspiration Drew, And, Reared By Taste, Bloomed 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 Polished Nation'S Praise Aspired To Claim, And Raised The People'S, As The Poet'S Fame. Like Him Great Dryden Poured The Tide Of Song, In Stream Less Smooth, Indeed, Yet Doubly Strong. Then Congreve'S Scenes Could Cheer, Or Otway'S Melt; [16] 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; This Truth At Least Let Satire'S Self Allow, No Dearth Of Bards Can Be Complained Of Now. The Loaded Press Beneath Her Labour Groans, And Printers' Devils Shake Their Weary Bones; While Southey'S Epics Cram The Creaking Shelves, And Little'S Lyrics Shine In Hot-Pressed Twelves. [17] Thus Saith The Preacher: "Nought Beneath The Sun Is New," [18] Yet Still From Change To Change We Run. What Varied Wonders Tempt Us As They Pass! The Cow-Pox, Tractors, Galvanism, And Gas, [19] 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: O'Er Taste Awhile These Pseudo-Bards Prevail; Each Country Book-Club Bows The Knee To Baal, And, Hurling Lawful Genius From The Throne, Erects A Shrine And Idol Of Its Own; Some Leaden Calf - But Whom It Matters Not, From Soaring Southey, Down To Groveling Stott. [20] Behold! In Various Throngs The Scribbling Crew, For Notice Eager, Pass In Long Review: Each Spurs His Jaded Pegasus Apace, And Rhyme And Blank Maintain An Equal Race; Sonnets On Sonnets Crowd, And Ode On Ode; And Tales Of Terror [21] Jostle On The Road; Immeasurable Measures Move Along; For Simpering Folly Loves A Varied Song, To Strange, Mysterious Dulness Still The Friend, Admires The Strain She Cannot Comprehend. Thus Lays Of Minstrels [22] - May They Be The Last! - On Half-Strung Harps Whine Mournful To The Blast. While Mountain Spirits Prate To River Sprites, That Dames May Listen To The Sound At Nights; And Goblin Brats, Of Gilpin Horner'S [23] Brood Decoy Young Border-Nobles Through The Wood, And Skip At Every Step, Lord Knows How High, And Frighten Foolish Babes, The Lord Knows Why; While High-Born Ladies In Their Magic Cell, Forbidding Knights To Read Who Cannot Spell, Despatch A Courier To A Wizard'S Grave, And Fight With Honest Men To Shield A Knave. Next View In State, Proud Prancing On His Roan, The Golden-Crested Haughty Marmion, Now Forging Scrolls, Now Foremost In The Fight, Not Quite A Felon, Yet But Half A Knight. The Gibbet Or The Field Prepared To Grace; A Mighty Mixture Of The Great And Base. And Think'St Thou, Scott! By Vain Conceit Perchance, On Public Taste To Foist Thy Stale Romance, Though Murray With His Miller May Combine To Yield Thy Muse Just Half-A-Crown Per Line? [24] 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: Still For Stern Mammon May They Toil In Vain! [25] And Sadly Gaze On Gold They Cannot Gain! 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." [26] These Are The Themes That Claim Our Plaudits Now; These Are The Bards To Whom The Muse Must Bow; While Milton, Dryden, Pope, Alike Forgot, Resign Their Hallowed 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 Hailed The Magic Name: The Work Of Each Immortal Bard Appears The Single Wonder Of A Thousand Years. [27] Empires Have Mouldered 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 Camo?Ns, 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, [28] Arabia'S Monstrous, Wild, And Wond'Rous 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! [29] Since Startled Metre Fled Before Thy Face, Well Wert Thou Doomed 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, [30] And Prince In Wales; Tells Us Strange Tales, As Other Travellers Do, More Old Than Mandeville'S, And Not So True. Oh, Southey! Southey! [31] 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; If Still In Berkeley-Ballads Most Uncivil, Thou Wilt Devote Old Women To The Devil, [32] The Babe Unborn Thy Dread Intent May Rue: "God Help Thee," Southey, [33] And Thy Readers Too. Next Comes The Dull Disciple Of Thy School, [34] 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;" [35] 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 [36] 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, [37] 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, [38] Yet None In Lofty Numbers Can Surpass The Bard Who Soars To Elegize An Ass: So Well The Subject Suits His Noble Mind, He Brays, The Laureate Of The Long-Eared Kind. Oh! Wonder-Working Lewis! [39] Monk, Or Bard, Who Fain Would Make Parnassus A Church-Yard! 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 Hailed, Thy Kindred Band; Or Tracest Chaste Descriptions On Thy Page, To Please The Females Of Our Modest Age; All Hail, M.P.! [40] 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 Yagers," And What Not, To Crown With Honour Thee And Walter Scott: Again, All Hail! If Tales Like Thine May Please, St. Luke Alone Can Vanquish The Disease: Even Satan'S Self With Thee Might Dread To Dwell, And In Thy Skull Discern A Deeper Hell. Who In Soft Guise, Surrounded By A Choir Of Virgins Melting, Not To Vesta'S Fire, With Sparkling Eyes, And Cheek By Passion Flushed Strikes His Wild Lyre, Whilst Listening Dames Are Hushed? 'Tis Little! Young Catullus Of His Day, As Sweet, But As Immoral, In His Lay! Grieved To Condemn, The Muse Must Still Be Just, Nor Spare Melodious Advocates Of Lust. Pure Is The Flame Which O'Er Her Altar Burns; From Grosser Incense With Disgust She Turns Yet Kind To Youth, This Expiation O'Er, She Bids Thee "Mend Thy Line, And Sin No More." For Thee, Translator Of The Tinsel Song, To Whom Such Glittering Ornaments Belong, Hibernian Strangford! With Thine Eyes Of Blue, [41] And Boasted Locks Of Red Or Auburn Hue, Whose Plaintive Strain Each Love-Sick Miss Admires, And O'Er Harmonious Fustian Half Expires, Learn, If Thou Canst, To Yield Thine Author'S Sense, Nor Vend Thy Sonnets On A False Pretence. Think'St Thou To Gain Thy Verse A Higher Place, By Dressing Camo?Ns [42] In A Suit Of Lace? Mend, Strangford! Mend Thy Morals And Thy Taste; Be Warm, But Pure; Be Amorous, But Be Chaste: Cease To Deceive; Thy Pilfered Harp Restore, Nor Teach The Lusian Bard To Copy Moore. Behold - Ye Tarts! - One Moment Spare The Text! - Hayley'S Last Work, And Worst - Until His Next; Whether He Spin Poor Couplets Into Plays, Or Damn The Dead With Purgatorial Praise, [43] His Style In Youth Or Age Is Still The Same, For Ever Feeble And For Ever Tame. Triumphant First See "Temper'S Triumphs" Shine! At Least I'M Sure They Triumphed Over Mine. Of "Music'S Triumphs," All Who Read May Swear That Luckless Music Never Triumph'D There. [44] Moravians, Rise! Bestow Some Meet Reward [45] On Dull Devotion - Lo! The Sabbath Bard, Sepulchral Grahame, [46] Pours His Notes Sublime In Mangled Prose, Nor E'En Aspires To Rhyme; Breaks Into Blank The Gospel Of St. Luke, And Boldly Pilfers From The Pentateuch; And, Undisturbed By Conscientious Qualms, Perverts The Prophets, And Purloins The Psalms. Hail, Sympathy! Thy Soft Idea Brings" A Thousand Visions Of A Thousand Things, And Shows, Still Whimpering Thro' Threescore Of Years, The Maudlin Prince Of Mournful Sonneteers. And Art Thou Not Their Prince, Harmonious Bowles! [47] Thou First, Great Oracle Of Tender Souls? Whether Them Sing'St With Equal Ease, And Grief, The Fall Of Empires, Or A Yellow Leaf; Whether Thy Muse Most Lamentably Tells What Merry Sounds Proceed From Oxford Bells, Or, Still In Bells Delighting, Finds A Friend In Every Chime That Jingled From Ostend; Ah! How Much Juster Were Thy Muse'S Hap, If To Thy Bells Thou Would'St But Add A Cap! Delightful Bowles! Still Blessing And Still Blest, All Love Thy Strain, But Children Like It Best. 'Tis Thine, With Gentle Little'S Moral Song, To Soothe The Mania Of The Amorous Throng! With Thee Our Nursery Damsels Shed Their Tears, Ere Miss As Yet Completes Her Infant Years: But In Her Teens Thy Whining Powers Are Vain; She Quits Poor Bowles For Little'S Purer Strain. Now To Soft Themes Thou Scornest To Confine The Lofty Numbers Of A Harp Like Thine; "Awake A Louder And A Loftier Strain," [48] Such As None Heard Before, Or Will Again! Where All Discoveries Jumbled From The Flood, Since First The Leaky Ark Reposed In Mud, By More Or Less, Are Sung In Every Book, From Captain Noah Down To Captain Cook. Nor This Alone - But, Pausing On The Road, The Bard Sighs Forth A Gentle Episode, [49] And Gravely Tells - Attend, Each Beauteous Miss! - When First Madeira Trembled To A Kiss. Bowles! In Thy Memory Let This Precept Dwell, Stick To Thy Sonnets, Man! - At Least They Sell. But If Some New-Born Whim, Or Larger Bribe, Prompt Thy Crude Brain, And Claim Thee For A Scribe: If 'Chance Some Bard, Though Once By Dunces Feared, Now, Prone In Dust, Can Only Be Revered; If Pope, Whose Fame And Genius, From The First, Have Foiled The Best Of Critics, Needs The Worst, Do Thou Essay: Each Fault, Each Failing Scan; The First Of Poets Was, Alas! But Man. Rake From Each Ancient Dunghill Ev'Ry Pearl, Consult Lord Fanny, And Confide In Curll; [50] Let All The Scandals Of A Former Age Perch On Thy Pen, And Flutter O'Er Thy Page; Affect A Candour Which Thou Canst Not Feel, Clothe Envy In A Garb Of Honest Zeal; Write, As If St. John'S Soul Could Still Inspire, And Do From Hate What Mallet [51] Did For Hire. Oh! Hadst Thou Lived In That Congenial Time, To Rave With Dennis, And With Ralph To Rhyme; [52] Thronged With The Rest Around His Living Head, Not Raised Thy Hoof Against The Lion Dead, A Meet Reward Had Crowned Thy Glorious Gains, And Linked Thee To The Dunciad For Thy Pains. [53] Another Epic! Who Inflicts Again More Books Of Blank Upon The Sons Of Men? Boeotian Cottle, Rich Bristowa'S Boast, Imports Old Stories From The Cambrian Coast, And Sends His Goods To Market - All Alive! Lines Forty Thousand, Cantos Twenty-Five! Fresh Fish From Hippocrene! [54] Who'Ll Buy? Who'Ll Buy? The Precious Bargain'S Cheap - In Faith, Not I. Your Turtle-Feeder'S Verse Must Needs Be Flat, Though Bristol Bloat Him With The Verdant Fat; If Commerce Fills The Purse, She Clogs The Brain, And Amos Cottle Strikes The Lyre In Vain. In Him An Author'S Luckless Lot Behold! Condemned To Make The Books Which Once He Sold. Oh, Amos Cottle! - Phoebus! What A Name To Fill The Speaking-Trump Of Future Fame! - Oh, Amos Cottle! For A Moment Think What Meagre Profits Spring From Pen And Ink! When Thus Devoted To Poetic Dreams, Who Will Peruse Thy Prostituted Reams? Oh! Pen Perverted! Paper Misapplied! Had Cottle [55] Still Adorned The Counter'S Side, Bent O'Er The Desk, Or, Born To Useful Toils, Been Taught To Make The Paper Which He Soils, Ploughed, Delved, Or Plied The Oar With Lusty Limb, He Had Not Sung Of Wales, Nor I Of Him. As Sisyphus Against The Infernal Steep Rolls The Huge Rock Whose Motions Ne'Er May Sleep, So Up Thy Hill, Ambrosial Richmond! Heaves Dull Maurice [56] All His Granite Weight Of Leaves: Smooth, Solid Monuments Of Mental Pain! The Petrifactions Of A Plodding Brain, That, Ere They Reach The Top, Fall Lumbering Back Again. With Broken Lyre And Cheek Serenely Pale, Lo! Sad Alc?Us Wanders Down The Vale; Though Fair They Rose, And Might Have Bloomed At Last, His Hopes Have Perished By The Northern Blast: Nipped In The Bud By Caledonian Gales, His Blossoms Wither As The Blast Prevails! O'Er His Lost Works Let Classic Sheffield Weep; May No Rude Hand Disturb Their Early Sleep! [57] Yet Say! Why Should The Bard, At Once, Resign His Claim To Favour From The Sacred Nine? For Ever Startled By The Mingled Howl Of Northern Wolves, That Still In Darkness Prowl; A Coward Brood, Which Mangle As They Prey, By Hellish Instinct, All That Cross Their Way; Aged Or Young, The Living Or The Dead," No Mercy Find-These Harpies Must Be Fed. Why Do The Injured Unresisting Yield The Calm Possession Of Their Native Field? Why Tamely Thus Before Their Fangs Retreat, Nor Hunt The Blood-Hounds Back To Arthur'S Seat? [58] Health To Immortal Jeffrey! Once, In Name, England Could Boast A Judge Almost The Same; [59] In Soul So Like, So Merciful, Yet Just, Some Think That Satan Has Resigned His Trust, And Given The Spirit To The World Again, To Sentence Letters, As He Sentenced Men. With Hand Less Mighty, But With Heart As Black, With Voice As Willing To Decree The Rack; Bred In The Courts Betimes, Though All That Law As Yet Hath Taught Him Is To Find A Flaw, - Since Well Instructed In The Patriot School To Rail At Party, Though A Party Tool - Who Knows? If Chance His Patrons Should Restore Back To The Sway They Forfeited Before, His Scribbling Toils Some Recompense May Meet, And Raise This Daniel To The Judgment-Seat. [60] Let Jeffrey'S Shade Indulge The Pious Hope, And Greeting Thus, Present Him With A Rope: "Heir To My Virtues! Man Of Equal Mind! Skilled To Condemn As To Traduce Mankind, This Cord Receive! For Thee Reserved With Care, To Wield In Judgment, And At Length To Wear." Health To Great Jeffrey! Heaven Preserve His Life, To Flourish On The Fertile Shores Of Fife, And Guard It Sacred In Its Future Wars, Since Authors Sometimes Seek The Field Of Mars! Can None Remember That Eventful Day,[61] That Ever-Glorious, Almost Fatal Fray, When Little'S Leadless Pistol Met His Eye, [62] And Bow-Street Myrmidons Stood Laughing By? Oh, Day Disastrous! On Her Firm-Set Rock, Dunedin'S Castle Felt A Secret Shock; Dark Rolled The Sympathetic Waves Of Forth, Low Groaned The Startled Whirlwinds Of The North; Tweed Ruffled Half His Waves To Form A Tear, The Other Half Pursued His Calm Career; [63] Arthur'S Steep Summit Nodded To Its Base, The Surly Tolbooth Scarcely Kept Her Place. The Tolbooth Felt - For Marble Sometimes Can, On Such Occasions, Feel As Much As Man - The Tolbooth Felt Defrauded Of His Charms, If Jeffrey Died, Except Within Her Arms: [64] Nay Last, Not Least, On That Portentous Morn, The Sixteenth Story, Where Himself Was Born, His Patrimonial Garret, Fell To Ground, And Pale Edina Shuddered At The Sound: Strewed Were The Streets Around With Milk-White Reams, Flowed All The Canongate With Inky Streams; This Of His Candour Seemed The Sable Dew, That Of His Valour Showed The Bloodless Hue; And All With Justice Deemed The Two Combined The Mingled Emblems Of His Mighty Mind. But Caledonia'S Goddess Hovered O'Er The Field, And Saved Him From The Wrath Of Moore; From Either Pistol Snatched The Vengeful Lead, And Straight Restored It To Her Favourite'S Head; That Head, With Greater Than Magnetic Power, Caught It, As Dan?E Caught The Golden Shower, And, Though The Thickening Dross Will Scarce Refine, Augments Its Ore, And Is Itself A Mine. "My Son," She Cried, "Ne'Er Thirst For Gore Again, Resign The Pistol And Resume The Pen; O'Er Politics And Poesy Preside, Boast Of Thy Country, And Britannia'S Guide! For Long As Albion'S Heedless Sons Submit, Or Scottish Taste Decides On English Wit, So Long Shall Last Thine Unmolested Reign, Nor Any Dare To Take Thy Name In Vain. Behold, A Chosen Band Shall Aid Thy Plan, And Own Thee Chieftain Of The Critic Clan. First In The Oat-Fed Phalanx [65] Shall Be Seen The Travelled Thane, Athenian Aberdeen. [66] Herbert Shall Wield Thor'S Hammer, [67] And Sometimes In Gratitude, Thou'Lt Praise His Rugged Rhymes. Smug Sydney [68] Too Thy Bitter Page Shall Seek, And Classic Hallam, [69] Much Renowned For Greek; Scott May Perchance His Name And Influence Lend, And Paltry Pillans [70] Shall Traduce His Friend; While Gay Thalia'S Luckless Votary, Lamb, [71] Damned Like The Devil - Devil-Like Will Damn. Known Be Thy Name! Unbounded Be Thy Sway! Thy Holland'S Banquets Shall Each Toil Repay! While Grateful Britain Yields The Praise She Owes To Holland'S Hirelings And To Learning'S Foes. Yet Mark One Caution Ere Thy Next Review Spread Its Light Wings Of Saffron And Of Blue, Beware Lest Blundering Brougham [72] Destroy The Sale, Turn Beef To Bannocks, Cauliflowers To Kail." Thus Having Said, The Kilted Goddess Kist Her Son, And Vanished In A Scottish Mist. [73] Then Prosper, Jeffrey! Pertest Of The Train [74] Whom Scotland Pampers With Her Fiery Grain! Whatever Blessing Waits A Genuine Scot, I