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A wild delirium round th' assembly flies ;

And are not now the anthor's ashes blest? Unusual lustre shoots from Emma's eyes,

Lies not the turf now lightly on his breast ? Luxurious Arno drivels as he stands,

Do not sweet violets now around him bloom ? And Anna frisks, and Laura claps her hands. Laurels now burst spontaneous from his tomb?

O wretched man! And dost thou toil to please, F. This is mere mockery: and (in your ear) At this late* hour, such prurient ears as these? Reason is ill refuted by a sneer. Is thy poor pride contented to receive

Is praise an evil ? Is there to be found
Such transitory fame as fools can give ?

One so indifferent to its soothing sound,
Fools, who, unconscious of the critics' laws, As not to wish hereafter to be known,
Rain in such showers their indistinct applause, And make a long futurity his own;
That thou, e'en thou, who livest upon renown, Rather than-
And, with eternal puffs, insult'st the town,

P. With 'Squire Jerningham descend Ari forced, at length, to check the idiot roar, To pastry cooks and moths, “ and there an end!" And cry, “ For heaven's sweet sake, no more, no Othou, who deign'st this homely scene to share, more!"

Thou know'st, when chance (though this indeed be " But why, (thou say’sl.) why am I learn'd, why rare)* fraught

With random gleams of wit has graced my lays, With all the priest and all the sage have taught, Thou know'st too well how I have relish'd If the huge mass within my bosom pent

praise. Must struggle there, despairing of a vent ?" Not mine the soul which pants not after fame : Thou learn'd! Alas, for learning! She is sped. Ambitious of a poet's envied name, And hast thou dimm'd thy eyes, and rack'd thy I haunt the sacred fount, athirst, to prove head,

The grateful influence of the stream I love. And broke thy rest for this, for this alone ? And yet, my friend-though still, at praise beAnd is thy knowledge nothing if not known?

stow'd, O lost to sense S-But still, thou criest, 'tis sweet, Mine eye has glisten’d, and my cheek has To hear “ That's ne!" from every one we meet : glow'd, That's he whom critic Bell declares divine, Yet, when I prostitute the lyre to gain For whom the fair diurnal laurels twine ;

The Euges which await the modish strain, Whom magazines, reviews, conspire to praise, May the sweet nuse my grovelling hopes withAnd Greathead calls the Homer of our days.

stand, F. And is it nothing, then, to hear our name And tear the strings indignant from my hand! Thus blazon'd by the GENERAL VOICE of fame? Nor think that, while my verse too much I prize, P. Nay, it were every thing, did that dis- Too much th' applause of fashion I despise ; pense

For mark to what 'tis given, and then declare, The sober verdict found by taste and sense : Mean though I am, if it be worth my care. But mark our jury. O'er the flowing bowl, -Is it not given to Este's unmeaning dash, When wine has drown'd all energy of soul, To Topham's fastian, Reynolds' Alippant trash, Ere Faro comes, (a dreary interval !)

To Morton's catchword,+ Greathead's idiot line, For some fond fashionable lay they call Here the spruce ensign, tottering on his chair,

* Thou know'st, when chance, &c.-To see how a With lisping accent, and affected air,

Cruscan can blunder! Mr. Parsons thus politely conRecounts the wayward fatet of that poor poet, ments on this unfortunate hemistich: Who, born for anguish, and disposed to show it, " Thou lowest of the imitating race, Did yet so awkwardly his means employ,

Thou imp of satire, and thou foul disgrace ; That gaping fiends mistook his grief for joy!

Who callest each coarse phrase a lucky hit," &c. Lost in amaze at language so divine,

Alas! no: But this is of a piece with his qui-pro-quo od The audience hiccup, and exclaim,“ Damn'd

the preface of the Mæviad-where, on my saying that I fine!"

had laid the poem aside for two years, he exultingly exclaims, “Soh! it was two years in hand, then !"

Mr. Parsons is highly celebrated, I am told, for his * At this late hour-I learn from Della Crusca's lamen. skillindriving a bargain: it is to be presumed that he does lations, that he is declined into the vale of years; that it with his spectacles on.-But, indeed, he hegan with a the women say to him, as they formerly said to Anacreon, blunder :-if he had read my motto carefully, he must YEPWv et, and that Love, about two years since, have seen that I never taxed him with keeping a bull for _" Tore his name from his bright page,

his own milking: no; it was the infatuated man who And gave it to approaching age.”

looked for sense in Mr. Parsons' skull that was charged

with this solecism in economics. And yet the bare belief + Recounts the wayward fate, &c.-In the INTERVIEW,

it produced the metamorphosis which I have already see the British Album, the lover, finding his mistress in noticed, and which his friends have not yet ceased to exorable, comforts himself, and justifies her, by boasting

deplore. how well he can play the fool. And never did Don Quixote exhibit half so many extravagant tricks in the Sierra

† Morton's catchword. WONDERFUL is the profundity Morena, for the beauz yeux of his dulcinea, as our dis of the bathos! I thought that O'Keefe had reached the tracted amoroso threatens to perform for the no less bottom of it; but, as uncle Bowling says, I thought a beautiful ones of Anna Matilda.

d-n'd lie; for Holcroft, Reynolds, and Morton have sunk “Yes, I will prove that I deserve my fare,

beneath him. They have happily found Was born for anguish, and was formed for hate;

In the lowest deep a lower still, With such transcendent wo will breathe my sigh, ana persevere in exploring it with an ergulation which That envying fiends shall think it ecstacy,” &c. does them honour.

And Holeroft's Shug-lane cant,* and Merry's Moor- That e'en the guilty at their sufferings smile, fields whine ?1

And bless the lancet, though they bleed the Skill'd in one useful science, at the least,

while.
The great man comes and spreads a sumptuous if tragedy, th' impassion'd numbers flow,
feast :

In all the sad variety of wo,
Then, when his guests behold the prize at stake, With such a liquid lapse, that they betray
And thirst and hunger only are awake,

The breast unwares, and steal the soul away.'
My friends, he cries, what think the galleries, pray, Thus fool'd, the moon-struck tribe, whose beast
And what the boxes, of my last new play?

essays Speak freely ;-tell me all ;-come, be sincere ; Sunk in acrostics, riddles, roundelays, For truth, you know, is music to my ear.

To loftier labours now pretend a call,
They speak! alas, they cannot. But shall I ? And bustle in heroics, one and all.
I, who receive no bribe ? who dare not lie? *E'en Bertie burns of gods and chiefs to sing-
This, then :-" That worse was never writ before, Bertie, who lately twitter'd to the string
Nor worse will be, till-thou shalt write once more.' His namby-pamby madrigals of love,

Bless'd be a two-headed Janus !" though inclined, In the dark dingles of a glittering grove,
No waggish stork can peck at him behind; Where airy lays,t woven by the hand of morn,
He no wry mouth, no lolling tongue can fear, Were hung to dry upon a cobweb thorn!
Nor the brisk twinkling of an ass's ear:

Happy the soil, where bards like mushrooms
But you, ye St. Johns, cursed with one poor head, rise,
Alas! what mockeries have not ye to dread! And ask no culture but what Byshe supplies !

Hear now our guests. The critics, sir! they cry, Happier the bards, who, write whate'er they will, Merit like yours the critics may defy :

Find gentle readers to admire them still! But this, indeed, they say, “ Your varied rhymes, Some love the verse that like Maria's flows, At once the boast and envy of the times,

No rubs to stagger, and no sense to pose ; In every page, song, sonnet, what you will, Which read, and read, you raise your eyes in doubt, Show boundless genius and unrivall’d skill. And gravely wonder-what it is about.

"If comedy be yours, the searching strain These fancy “ BELL's Poetics" only sweet, Blends such sweet pleasure with corrective pain, And intercept his hawkers in the street ;

There, smoking hot, inhale Mit YENDAʼst strains, * And Holcroft's Shug-lane cant. This is a poor stupid | And the rank fame of Tony Pasquin's brains. wretch, to whom infidelity and disloyalty have given a momentary notoriety, which has imposed upon the oscitancy of the managers, and opened the theatre to two or * E’en Bertie, &c.--For Bertie, (Greathead, I think three of his grovelling and senseless productions. they call him) see the Mæviad. Will future ages believe that this facetious triumvirate

+ Where airy lays, &c. should think nothing more to be necessary to the con

* Was it the shuttle of the morn struction of a play, than an elernal repetition of some wontemptible vulgarity, such as “ That's your sort !"

That hung upon the cobweb'd thorn * Hey, damme !" " What's to pay ?” “Keep moving !" &c.

Thy airy lay ? Or did it rise, They will; for they will have blockheads of their own,

In thousand rich enamellid dyes, who will found their claims to celebrity on similar follies.

To greet the noonday sun ?" &c. What, however, they will never credit is, that these dri-1 - Album, vol. ji. Tellings of idiotism, these catchwords, should actually I Mit YENDA.-This is Mr. Tim, alias Mr. Timothy preserve their respective authors from being hooted off Adney, a mose pertinacious gentleman, who makes a the stage. No, they will not believe that an English au. conspicuous figure in the daily papers under the ingenious dience could be so begotted, so brutified, as to recei

signature above cited; it being, as the reader already such senseless 'exclamations with bursts of laughter, sees, his own name read backward. “Gentle dulness with peals of applause. I cannot believe it myself, though ever loves a joke!" I have witnessed it. Haud credo-if I may reverse the

Of his prodigious labours I have nothing by me but the good father's position-haud credo, quia possibile est.

following stanza, taken from what he calls his Poor † Merry's Moorfields whine.-In a most wretched Man: rhapsody of incomprehensible nonsense, addressed by

Reward the bounty of your generous hand, this gentleman to Mrs. Robinson, which she, in her valu

Your head each night in comfort shail be laid, able poems, (page 100,) calls a charming composition,

And plenty smile throughout your fertile land, ebounding in lines of exquisite beauty, is the following

While I do hasten to the silent grare." rant: Conjure up demons from the main,

"Good morrow, my worthy masters and mistresses all, Storms upon storms indignant heap,

and a merry Christmas to you !" Bid ocean howl, and nature weep,

I have been guilty of a misnomer. Mr. Adney has poTill the Creator blush to see

litely informed me, since the above was written, that his Hoo horrible his world can be :

Christian name is not Timothy, but Thomas. The anaWhile I will glory to blaspheme,

gram in question, therefore, must be Mot YENDA, omitAnd make the joys of hell my theme.

ting the H, euphoniæ gratia. I am happy in an opportuThe reader, perhaps, wonders what dreadful event gave nity of doing justice to ou correct a gentleman, and I pray birth to these fearful imprecations. As far as I can col- him to continue his valuable lucubrations. lect from the poem, it was the momentary refusal of the 3 TONY Pasquin.--I have too much respect for my aforesaid Mrs. Robinson-to open her eyes ! Surely, it is reader, to affront him with any specimens of this man's most devoutly to be wished that these poor creatures poetry, at once licentious and dull beyond example: at would recollect, amidst their frigid ravings and common the same time I cannot resist the temptation of present place extravagances, that excellent maxim of Pope

ing him with the following stanzas, written by a friend * Persist, by nature, reason, taste unawed ;

of mine, and sufficiently illustrative of the character in But learn, ye dunces, not to scorn your God.question:

Others, like Kemble, on black-letter pore,

There Fezzan's thrum-capp'd tribes, Turks, Chris And what they do not understand, adore ;

tians, Jews, Buy at vast sums the trash of ancient days, Accommodate, ye gods! their feet with shoes ; And draw on prodigality for praise.

There meager shrubs inveterate mountains grace, These, when some lucky hit, or lucky price, And brushwood breaks the amplitude of space. Has bless'd them with “ The Boke of gode Advice," Perplex'd with terms so vague and undefined, For ekes and algates only deign to seek,

I blunder on; till 'wilder'd, giddy, blind, And live upon a whilome for a week.

Where'er I turn, on clouds I seem to tread; And can we, when such mope-eyed dolts are And call for Mandeville, to ease my head. placed

O for the good old times! When all was new, By thoughtless fashion on the throne of taste- And every hour brought prodigies to view, Say, can we wonder whence such jargon flows, Our sires in unaffected language told This motley fustian, neither verse nor prose, Of streams of amber, and of rocks of gold ; This old, new language which defiles our page, Full of their theme, they spurn'd all idle art; The refuse and the scum of every age ?

And the plain tale was trusted to the heart.
Lo! Beaufoy* tells of Afric's barren sand, Now all is changed! We fume and fret, poor elves,
In all the flowery phrase of fairy land :

Less to display our subject than ourselves.
Whate'er we paint-a grot, a flower, a bird,

Heavens, how we sweat! laboriously absurd !
TO ANTHONY PASQUIN, E8Q.

Words of gigantic balk, and uncouth sound, * Why dost thou tack, most simple Anthony,

In rattling triads the long sentence bound;
The name of Pasquin to thy ribald strains ?
Is it a fetch of wit, lo let us see,

While points with points, with periods periods jar, Thou, like that statue, art devoid of brains ?

And the whole work seems one continued war! “But thou mistakest: for know, though Pasquin's head Is not this sad? Be full as hard, and near as thick as thine,

F. “ "Tis pitiful, heaven knows Yet has the world, admiring, on it read

'Tis wondrous pitiful." E'en take the prose; Many a keen gibe, and many a sportive line. But for the poetry-0, that, my friend, “While nothing from thy jobbernowl can spring I still aspire-nay, smile not-to defend. But impudence and filth; for oui, alas!

You praise our sires, but, though they wrote with Do what we will, 'tis still the same vile thing,

force, Within, all brick-dust-and without, all brass.

Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse Then blot the name of Pasquin from thy page :

We want their strength : agreed ; but we atone Thou seest it will not thy poor riff-rati sell. Some other would'st thou take? I dare engage

For that, and more, by sweetness ALL OUR OWN. John Williams, or Tom Fool, will do as well."

For instance-*** Hasten to the lawny vale, Tony has taken my friend's advice, and now sells, or where yellow morning breathes her saffron gale, attempts to sell, his “ rifl-raft" under the name of John And bathes the landscape-" WILLIAMS

P. Pshaw: I have it here. It has been represented to me, that I should do well to

"A voice seraphic grasps my listening ear; avoid all mention of this man, from a consideration, that wondering I gaze ; when lo! methought afar, one so lost to every sense of decency and shame was a More bright than dauntless day's imperial star, fitler object for the beadle than the muse. This has in. duced me to lay aside a second castigation which I had A godlike form advances.” prepared for him, though I do not think it expedient to

F. You suppose omit what I had formerly written.

These lines, perhaps, 100 turgid; what of those Here on the rack of satire let him lie,

“THE MIGHTY MOTHERFit garbage for the hell-hound infamy.

P. Now 'tis plain you sneer, One word more. I am told that there are men so weak For Weston`st self could find no semblance here : as to deprecate this miserable object's abuse, and so vain, so despicably vain, as to tolerate his praise--for such I have nothing but pity ;-though the fate of Hastings, see of water, to the long ascent of the broad rock of Gerdodan, the "Pin-basket to the Children of Thespis,” holds out a (p. 289,) from whose inflexible harrenness little is to be dreadful lesson to the latter:--but should there be a man got--from this scene, I say, of gladsome contrast to the or a woman, however high in rank, base enough to pur- inveterate mountains of Gegogib, &c. chase the venal pen of this miscreant for the sake of tra

" In the long course of a seven days' passage, the traducing innocence and virtue, then—I was about to veller is scarcely sensible that a few spots of thin and threaten, but 'tis not necessary: the profligate cowards meager brushwood slightly interrupt the vast expanse of who employ Anthony can know no severer punishment sterility, and diminish the amplitude of desolation !!!" than the support of a man whose acquaintance is infamy,

* Hasten, &c. - This and the following quotation are and whose touch is poison.

taken from the “ Laurei of Liberty,” a work on which the * Lo! Beaufoy, &c.-" The feet are accommodated with great author most justly rests his claim to immortality. shoes, and the head is protected by a--woollen night-cap.” See p. 167. -AFRICAN ASSOCIATION, p. 139.

+ Weston.-This indefatigable gentleman has been “ From this scene of gladsome contrast, i. e. from the long employed in auacking the moral character of Pope mountain of Zilau, (p. 288,) whose rugged sides are marked

in the Gentleman's Magazine, with all the virulence of with scanty spots of brushwood, and enriched with stores Gildon, all the impudence of Smedley, and all the igno

rance of Curl and his associates. 1 Shoes. By your leave, master critic, here is a small oversight in your What the views of the bland Sylvanus may be, in standquotation. The gentleman does not say their feet are accommodated with ing cap in hand, and complacently holding open the door scholar-like word, and a word of exceeding great propriety. "Accommo of the temple, for nearly two years, to this execrable" date! it comes from accommodo : that is, when a man's feet are, as they say, accommodated, or when they are-being whereby they may be thought to 1 Such is the epithet applied to Pope by the * virtuous indignation" of the be accommodated : which is an excellent thing Printer Devil.

amiable" traducer of worth and genius!

Weston, who slunk from truth's imperious light, Heavens! if our ancient vigour were not fled, Swells, like a filthy toad, with secret spite, Could verse like this be written ? or be read? And, envying the same he cannot hope,

VERSE! That's the mellow fruit of toil intense, Spits his black venom at the dust of Pope. Inspired by genius, and inform’d by sense ; --Reptile accursed -O memorable long, Tais, the abortive progeny of pride, If there be force in virtue or in song,

And dulness, gentle pair, for aye allied ; O injured bard! accept the grateful strain, Begotten without thoughi, born without pains, Which I, the humblest of the tuneful train, The ropy drivel of rheumatic brains. With glowing heart, yet trembling hand, repay F. So let it be ; and yet, methinks, my friend, For many a pensive, many a sprightly lay! Silence were wise, where satire will not mend. So may thy varied verse, from age to age,

Why wound the feelings of our noble youth, Inform the simple, and delight the sage ;

And grate their tender ears with odious truth! While canker'd Weston, and his loathsome rhymes, They cherish Arno* and his flux of song, Stink in the nose of all succeeding times !

And hate the man who tells 'em they are wrong. Enough. But where, (for these, you seem to say, Your fate already I foresee. My lord, Are samples of the high, heroic lay,)

With cold respect, will freeze you from his board ; Where are the soft, ihe tender strains, which call And his grace cry, “ Hence with that sapient sneer! For the moist eye, bow'd head, and lengthen'd Hence! we desire no currish critic here." drawl?

P. Enough. Thank heaven! my error now I see, Lo! here—*** Canst thou, Matilda, urge my fate, And all shall be divine, henceforth, for me : And bid me mourn thee? yes, and mourn too late! O rash, severe decree ! my maddening brain

* Of the talents of this spes altera Roma, this second Cannot the ponderous agony sustain ;

hope of the age, the following stanzas will afford a suffi. But forth I rush, from vale to mountain run, cient specimen. They are taken from a ballad which And with my mind's thick gloom obscure the Mr. Bell, an admirable judge of these matters, calls a sun."

"very mellifluous one ; easy, artless, and unaffected."

Gently o'er the rising billows

Softly steals the bird of night, Erostratus, I know not. He cannot surely be weak Rustling through the bending willows : enough to suppose that an obscure scribbler like this

Fluttering pinions mark her flight. has any charges to bring against our great poet, which * Whither now in silence bending, escaped the vigilant malevolence of the Westons of the

Ruthless winds deny the rest : Dimnciad. Or if ever, from the “natural goodness of his

Chilling night-leuns fast descending, beart," he cherished so laudable a supposition, he ought

Glisten on thy downy breast. (whatever it may cost him) to forego it: when, after twenty months' preparation, nothing is produced but an

** Seeking some kind haud to guide thee,

Wistful turns thy fearful eye ; exploited accusation taken from the most common edition of the Dunciad!

Trembling as the willows hide thee, It has been guggested to me, that this nightman of lite

Szeiler'd from th' inclement sky." rature designs to reprint as much as can be collected of

The story of this parowi, who was alone and the same the herves of the Dunciad.—If it be so, the dirty work of time at sea and on land, silent and noisy, sheltered and traducing Pupe may be previously necessary; and pre-exposed, is continued through a few more of these “mellijutice its-ls must own, that he has shown uncommon

twus" stanzas, which the reader, I doubt not, will readily penetration in the selection of the blind and outrageous forgive me för omilling; murs especially if he reads tho tercenary now so laboriously employed in it.

ORACLE, 1 paper honoured-ag the grateful editor very Whatever be the design, the proceedings are by no properly has it-by the effusions of this “artless' gentlemeans inconsistent with the plan of a work which may

man abve all others. not unaptly be styled the charnel-house of reputation,

N.B. On looking again, I fini the owl to be a nightand which, from the days of Lauder to the present, has

ingale!--N'importe. delighted ( asperge every thing venerable among us-

It was said "f Theophilus Cibber,(I think by Goldsmith,) which accused Swift of lust, and Addison of drunkenness! that as he grew older, he grew never the better. Much which insulted the ashes of Toup while they were yet

the same (mutatis mutandig) may be said of the gentlemen warm, and gibbeted poor Henderson alive: which airects of the Baviad. After an interval of two years, I find the ed to idolize the great and good Howard, while idolatry

“ mellifluous" ARNO C-lebrating Mrs. Robinson's novel was painful to him: and the moment he fell, glori usly in strains like these. fell, in the exercise of the most sublime virtue, atleropted

* For the Orarle. to stigmalize him as a brute and a monster!

SONNET TO MRS. ROBINSON, • Canst thou, Matilda, &c. vide Album, vol. ii.-Ma

Upon realing her VANCENZA. tilda ! " Nay then, I'll never trust a madman again." It

“What never-ceasin: music! From the throne was but a few minutes since, that Mr. Merry died for the Where sweetest Sensibility enshrined, love of Laura Maria ; and now is he about to do the same Pours out her lender triumphs, all alone, thing for the love of Anna Matilda ?

To every murmuring breeze of passing wind! What the ladies may say to such a swain, I know not;

“O, bless'd with all the lovely lapse of song, bat certainly he is too prone to run wild, die, &c. &c. Such, indeed, is the combustible nature of this genileman,

That bathes with purest balm the soften'd breast, that he takes fire at every female signature in the papers ;

I see thee urge thy fancy's course along and I remember, that when Olaudo Equiano, who, for a

The solemn glooms of Gothic piles unbless'd. black, is not ill-featured, tried his hand at a soft sonnet,

* Vancenza rises-o'er her time-louch'd spires and by mistake gubscribed it Olauda, Mr. Merry fell su

Guill unreveald hovers with killing dew, desperately in love with him, and "yelled out such sylla

Frustrates the fondness of the Virgin's fires,

And bares the murderous rasket to her view. bles of dolour" in consequence of it, that the pitiful-hearted negro was frightened at the mischief he had done, and

“ The thrilling pulse creeps back upon each heart, transmitted in all haste the following correction to the And horror lords it by thy fascinating art.”---Arno. editor--For Olaud A, please to read Olaudo, the black Et vitula to dignus, et HÆC! The novel is worthy of the * MAN."

poetry, the poetry of the novel.

Yes, Andrews' doggrel, Greathead's idiot line, Who Anna's bedlam rant for sense can take,
And Morton's catchword, all, forsooth, divine ! And over* Edwin's mewlings keep awake ;
F. 'Tis well. Here let th' indignant stricture

cease,
And LEEDS at length enjoy his fool in peace.

* Edwin's meulinge, &c.-We come now to a character P. Come then, around their works a circle

of high respect, the profound Mr. T. Vaughan, who, under

the alluring signature of Edwin, favours us from time to draw,

time with a melancholy poem on the death of a bug, the And near it plant the dragons of the law,

flight of an earwig, the miscarriage of a cockchaffer, or With labels writ, “Critics, far hence remove, some other event of equal importance. Nor dare to censure what the great approve." His last work was an Enraplov, (blessings on his learnI go. Yet Hall could lash with noble rage

ing! which, I take for granted, means an epitaph, on a The purblind patron of a former age ;

mouse that broke her heart: and, as it was a matter of And laugh to scorn th' eternal sonneteer,

great consequence, he very properly made the introduc

tion as long as the poem itself. Hear how gravely he Who made goose pinions and white rags so dear.

prologiseth. Yet Oldham, in his rude, unpolish'd strain,

On a tame mouse, which belonged to a lady who saved Could hiss the clamorous, and deride the vain, its life, constantly fed it, and even wept, (poor lady Who bawl'd their rhymes incessant through the at its approaching death. The mouse's eyes actually town,

dropped out of its head (poor mouse !) THE DAY BEFORB Or bribed the hawkers for a day's renown.

IT DIED."

Επιταφιον.

. Whate'er the theme, with honest warmth they

“This feeling mouse, whose heart was warm'd wrote,

By pity's purest ray,
Nor cared what Mutius of their freedom thought; Because her mistress dropi a tear,
Yet prose was venial in that happy time,

Wept both her eyes away.
And life had other business than to rhyme.

“By sympathy deprived of light, And may not I-now this pernicious pest,

She one day darkness tried ; This metromania, creeps through every breast;

The grateful tear no more could floro, Now fools and children void their brains by loads,

So liked it not, and died. And itching grandams spawl lascivious odes ;

May we, when others weep for us, Now lords and dukes, cursed with a sickly taste,

The debt with interest pay

And, when the generous fonts are dry, While Burns' pure healthful nurture runs to

Revert to native clay.”Edwin. waste, Lick up the spittle of the bed-rid muso,

Mr. T. Vaughan has asserted that he is not the author

of this matchless EaTabloy with such spirit, and retort And riot on the sweepings of the stews ;

ed upon one Baviad (whom the learned gentleman lakes Say, may not I expose

to be a man) with such strength of argument and elegance F. No—'tis unsafe ;

of diction, that it would wrong both him and the reader Prudence, my friend.

to give it in any words hut his own. P. What! not deride ? not laugh?

" Well said, Baviad the correctl-And so the PROFOUND Well! thought at least is free

Mr. T. Vaughan, as you politely style him, writes under

the alluring signature of Edwin, does he ? and therefore F. O yet forbear.

a very proper subject for your satiric malignity !-But P. Nay, then, I'll dig a pit, and bury there

suppose for a moment, as the truth and the fact is, that The dreadful truth which so alarms thy fears : this gentleman never did use that signature upon any THE TOWN, THE TOWN, GOOD PIT, HAS ASSES' occasion, in whatever he may have written: Do not you, EARS!

the identica! Baviad, in that case, for your unprovoked Thou think'st, perhaps, this wayward fancy strange ; of that nightman of literature you so liberally assign

abuse of him, immediately fall under your own character So think thou still : yet would not I exchange

Weston ? And like him, too, if there is any truth in The secret humour of this simple hit

what you say or write, do you not For all the Albums that were ever writ.

416 Swell like a filthy toad with secret spite ?! Of this, no more.-0 thou, (if yet there be One bosom from this vile infection free,)

" The ayes have it. And should you not be as well Thou who canst thrill with joy, or glow with ire,

versed in your favourite author's fourth salire, as you

are in the first, with your leave, I will quote from it two As the great masters of the song inspire,

emphatic lines: Canst bend enraptured o'er the magic page,

"Into themselves how few, how few descend, Where desperate ladies desperate lords engage, And act, at home, the free, impartial friend! Gnomes, eylphs, and gods the fierce contention None see their own, but all, with ready eye, share,

The pendent wallet on a neighbour spy : And heaven and earth hang trembling on a hair :

And like a Baviad will recount his shame, Canst quake with horror, while Emilia's charms,

Tacking his very errors to his name.'

Oracle, 12th Jan." Against a brother point a brother's arms;

And to whose name should they be tacked, but the au. And trace the fortune of the varying fray,

thor's ? Let not the reader, however, imagine the absurd. While hour on hour flits unperceived away, ity to proceed from Persius, or his ivgenious translator. Approach : 'twixt hope and fear I wait. O deign " The truth and the fact is," that our learned brother, To cast a glance on this incondite strain :

having a small change to make in the last two lines, Here, if thou find one thought but well expressid,

blundered them, with his usual acuteness, into nonsense, One sentence higher finish'd than the rest,

He is not much more happy when he accuses me of call Such as may win thee to proceed a while,

ing WESTON “the nightman of literature."-But when And smooth thy forehead with a gracious smile

a gentleman does not know what he writes, it is a little

hard to expect him to know what he reads. After all, I ask no more, but far from me the throng

Edwin or not, our egregious friend is still the PROFOUND Who fancy fire in Lanra's vapid song ;

Mr. T. Vaughan.

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