Behold! for scandal you have made a feast,
And turned your idol, Johnson, to a beast.
'Tis plain the tales of ghosts are arrant lies,
Or instantaneously would Johnson's rise;
Make you both eat your paragraphs so evil;
And, for your treatment to him, play the devil.
Just like two Mohocks on the man you fall;
No murderer is worse served at Surgeons' Hall!
Instead of adding splendour to his name,
Your books are downright gibbets to his fame.
Of those your anecdotes-may I be cursed
If I can tell you which of them is worst.
You never with posterity can thrive-
'Tis by the Rambler's death alone you live;
Like wrens that (in some volume I have read)
Hatched by strange fortune in a horse's head.
Poor Sam was rather fainting in his glory,
But now his fame lies foully dead before ye:
Thus to some dying man (a frequent case)
Two doctors come and give the coup de grace.
Zounds madam, mind the duties of a wife,
And dream no more of Dr. Johnson's life.
A happy knowledge in a pie or pudding
Will more delight your friends than all your studying;
One cut from venison to the heart can speak
Stronger than ten quotations from the Greek;

One fat sirloin possesses more sublime
Than all the airy castles built by rhyme.
One nipperkin of stingo with a toast

Beats all the streams the Muses' fount can boast.
Yes, in one pint of porter, lo! my belly can
Find blisses not in all the floods of Helicon.
Enough those anecdotes your powers have shown
Sam's life, dear ma'am, will only damn your own.
For thee, James Boswell, may the hand of fate
Arrest thy goose-quill, and confine thy prate;
Thy egotisms the world disgusted hears.
Then load with vanities no more our ears;
Like some lone puppy, yelping all night long,
That tires the very echoes with his tongue.
Yet, should it lie beyond the powers of fate
To stop thy pen, and still thy darling prate,
Oh be in solitude to live thy luck-
A chattering magpie on the Isle of Muck!

Thus spoke the Judge; then, leaping from the

chair,

He left, in consternation lost, the pair:-
Black Frank he sought, on anecdote to cram,
And vomit first a life of surly Sam.-

;

Shocked at the little manners of the knight,
The rivals marvelling marked his sudden flight;
Then to their pens and paper rushed the twain,
To kill the mangled Rambler o'er again.

A POETICAL, SUPPLICATING, MODEST, AND AFFECTING
EPISTLE TO THOSE LITERARY COLOSSUSES,
THE REVIEWERS.

"Carmine Di Superi placantur, carmine Manes."

FATHERS of wisdom, a poor wight befriend!
Oh hear my simple prayer in simple lays :
In forma pauperis behold I bend,

And of your worships ask a little praise.

I am no cormorant for fame, d'ye see;
I ask not all the laurel, but a sprig!
Then hear me, guardians of the sacred tree,
And stick a leaf or two about my wig.

In sonnet, ode, and legendary tale,

Soon will the press my tuneful works display;
Then do not damn 'em, and prevent the sale;
And your petitioner shall ever pray.

My labours damned, the Muse with grief will groan-
The censure dire my lantern jaws will rue!
Know, I have teeth and stomach like your own,
And that I wish to eat as well as you.

I never said, like murderers in their dens,

You secret met in cloud-capped garret high,
With hatchets, scalping-knives in shape of pens,
To bid, like Mohocks, hapless authors die :

Nor said, in your Reviews, together strung,
The limbs of butchered writers, cheek by jowl,
Looked like the legs of flies on cobwebs hung
Before the hungry spider's dreary hole.

I ne'er declared that, frightful as the Blacks,
In greasy flannel caps you met together,
With scarce a rag of shirt about your backs,

Or coat or breeches to keep out the weather.

Heaven knows I'm innocent of all transgression
Against your honours, men of classic fame!

I ne'er abused your critical profession,

Whose dictum saves at once or damns a name.

I never questioned your profound of head,

Nor vulgar called your wit, your manners coarse; Nor swore on butchered authors that you fed

Like carrion crows upon a poor dead horse.

I never said that pedlar-like you sold

Praise by the ounce or pound, like snuff or cheese; Too well I knew you silver scorned, and goldSuch dross a sage Reviewer seldom sees!

I never hinted that with half a crown

Books have been sent you by the scribbling tribe; Which fee hath purchased pages of renown: No, for I knew you'd spurn the paltry bribe.

I ne'er averred you critics, to a man,

For pence would swear an owl excelled the lark; Nor called a coward gang your grave Divan,

That stabbed, like base assassins, in the dark.

I never praised, or blamed, an author's book,
Until your wise opinions came abroad.
On these with holy reverence did I look :

With you I praised, or blamed, so help me God!

The famed Longinus all the world must know;
The gape of wonder Aristarchus drew,

As well as Alexander's tutor, lo!

All, all great critics, gentlemen, like you.

Did any ask me, "Pray, Sir, your opinion
Of those Reviewers who so bold bestride
The world of learning, and, with proud dominion,
High on the backs of crouching authors ride?"

Quick have I answered, in a rage, "Odsblood!
No works like theirs such criticism convey:
Not all the timber of Dodona's wood

E'er poured more sterling oracle than they.”

Did others cry, "Whate'er their brains indite
Be sure is excellent-a partial crew!

With io pæans ushered to the light,

And praised to folly in the next Review."

This was my answer to each snarling elf

(My eyeballs filled with fire, my mouth with foam): "Zounds! is not justice due to one's dear self?

And should not charity begin at home?"

Full often I've been questioned with a sneer-
"Think you one could not bribe 'em?"-"Not a
nation."

"A beef-steak, with a pot or two of beer,

Might save a little volume from damnation."

Furious I've answered: "Lo! my Lord Carlisle Hath begged in vain a seat in Fame's old temple ; Though you applaud, their wisdoms will not smile; And what they disapprove is cursed simple.

"Could gold succeed, enough the peer might raise, Whose wealth would buy the critics o'er and o'er : 'Tis merit only can command their praise,

Witness the volumes of Miss Hannah More ;

"The Search for Happiness, that beauteous song,
Which all of us would give our ears to own;
The Captive, Percy, that, like mustard strong,
Make our eyes weep, and understandings groan."

Hail, Bristol town! Boeotia now no more,

Since Garrick's Sappho sings, though rather slowly! All hail, Miss Hannah! worth at least a score, Ay, twenty score, of Chatterton and Rowley

Men of prodigious parts are mostly shy;

Great Newton's self this failing did inherit; Thus, frequent, you avoid the public eye,

And hide in lurking-holes a world of merit.

Yet oft your cautious modesties I see,

When from your bower with bats you wing the dark : And Sundays, when no catchpoles prowl for prey, On ether dining in St. James's Park.

Meek Sirs! in frays you choose not to appear,-—
A circumstance most natural to suppose;
And therefore hide your precious heads, for fear
Some angry bard abused should pull your nose.

The world's loud plaudit, lo! you don't desire,
Nor do you hastily on books decide;

But first at every coffee-house enquire
How in its favour runs the public tide.

There Wisdom often with a critic wig,

The face demure, knit brows, and forehead scowling, I've seen o'er pamphlets, with importance big, Mousing for faults, or, if you'll have it, owling.

Herculean gentlemen! I dread your drubs;
Pity the lifted whites of both my eyes!

Strung with new strength beneath your massy clubs,
Alas! I shall not an Antæus rise.

Lo, like an elephant along the ground,

Great Caliban, the giant Johnson stretched!
The British Roscius too your clubs confound,

Whose fame the farthest of the stars hath reached.

If such so easy sink beneath your might,
Ye gods! I may be done for in a trice:
Hurled by your rage to everlasting night-
Cracked with that ease a beggar cracks his lice.

If, awful Sirs, you grant me my petition,

With brother pamphlets shall my pamphlet shine; And, should it chance to pass a first edition,

In capitals shall stare your praise divine.

Quote from my work as much as e'er you please ;
For extracts, lo! I'll put no angry face on;

Nor fill a hungry lawyer's fist with fees,

To trounce a bookseller, like furious Mason.1

Sage Sirs! if favour in your sight I find,

If fame you grant, I'll bless each generous giver; Wish you sound coats, good stomachs, masters kind,2 Gallons of broth, and pounds of bullock's liver.

A LYRIC ODE.

THE mean, the rancorous jealousies, that swell
In some sad artists' souls, I do despise ;
Instead of nobly striving to excel,

You strive to pick out one the other's eyes.

To be a painter was Correggio's glory:

His speech should flame in gold—“Sono pittore."

But what, if truth were spoke, would be your speeches?
This "We're a set of fame-sucking horse-leeches,

Without a blush the poorest scandal speaking

Like cocks, for ever at each other beaking;
As if the globe we dwell on were so small
There really was not room enough for all."
Young men !-

I do presume that one of you in ten

Hath kept a dog or two; and hath remarked

That, when you have been comfortably feeding,

1 The contest between Mr. Mason and a bookseller is generally known. 2 The booksellers.