May Moorland" weavers boast Pindaric skill,
And taylors' 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.

Come forth, oh! CAMPBELL!t give thy talents scope;
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope?

And thou, melodious ROGERS! rise at last,
Recal the pleasing memory of the past;
Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire,
And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre;
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,
Assert thy country's honour and thy 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 marked the spurious brood,
The race who rhyme from folly, or for food;
Yet still some genuine sons 'tis her's to boast,
Who least affecting, still effect the most;

Feel as they write, and write but as they feel

Bear witness GIFFORD, SOTHEBY, and MACNEIL.

780

790

* Vide "Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of Staffordshire."

+ It would be superfluous to recal to the mind of the reader the authors of The Pleasures of Memory" and "The Pleasures of Hope," the most beautiful didactic poems in our language, if we except Pope's Essay on Man: "but so many poetasters have started up, that even the names of Campbell and Rogers are become strange.

Gifford, author of the Baviad and Mæviad, the first satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal.

Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon, and Virgil's Geor gies, and author of Saul, an epic poem.

Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular: particularly "Scotland's Seaith, or the Wacs of War," of which ten thou sand copies were sold in one month.

Why slumbers GIFFORD?" once was asked in vain :*
Why slumbers GIFFORD? let us ask again.
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?
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time,
Eternal beacons of consummate crime?
Arouse thee, GIFFORD! be thy promise claimed,
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed.

Unhappy WHITE!† while life was in its spring,
And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing
The spoiler came; all, all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep forever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science self destroyed her favourite son!
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
*She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit.
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low:
So the struck eagle stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart:
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel

He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel

800

810

Mr. Gifford promised publicly that the Baviad and Mæ viad should not be his last original works; let him remem"Mox in reluctantes Dracones."

ber;

Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret, that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume,

While the same plumage that had warmed his nest,
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

There be, who say in these enlightened days
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise;
That strained Invention, ever on the wing,
Alone impels the modern bard to sing :

'Tis true, that all who rhyme, nay, all who write,
Shrink from that fatal word to genius-Trite;
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires,
And decorate the verse herself inspires:
This fact in Virtue's name let CRABBE attest,
Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.

And here let SHEE* and genius find a place,
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace;
To guide whose hand the sister Arts combine,
And trace the poet's, or the painter's line;
Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow;
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow,
While honours doubly merited attend
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend.

Blest is the man! who dares approach the bower
Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour;
Whose steps have pressed, whose eye has marked afar,
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war,
The scenes which Glory still must hover o'er;
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore:
But doubly blest is he, whose heart expands
With hallowed feelings for those classic lands;
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by,
And views their remnants with a poet's eye!
WRIGHT!t 'twas thy happy lot at once to view

830

840

850

Mr. Shee, author of " Rhymes on Art," and "Elements of Art."

+ Mr. Wright, late consul-general for the seven islands, is author of a very beautiful poem just published: it is entitled, "Horæ Ionicæ," and is descriptive of the Isles and the adja cent coast of Greece.

Those shores of glory, and to sing them too;
And sure no common Muse inspired thy pen
To hail the land of gods and godlike men.

And you, associate bards!* who snatched to light,
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight;
Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath
Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe,
And all their renovated fragrance flung,
To grace the beauties of your native tongue;
Now let those minds that nobly could transfuse
The glorious spirit of the Grecian Muse,
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrowed tone:
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own.

Let these, or such as these, with just applause,
Restore the Muse's violated laws;

But not in flimsy DARWIN's pompous chime,
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme;
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorned than clear,
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear,
In show the simple lyre could once surpass,
But now worn down, appear in native brass;
While all his train of hovering sylphs around,
Evaporate in similes and sound:

Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die:
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.†

Yet let them not to vulgar WORDSWORTH stoop,
The meanest object of the lowly group.

Whose verse of all but childish prattle void,
Seems blessed harmony to LAMBE and LLOYD.‡
Let them-but hold my Muse, nor dare to teach

A strain, far, far beyond thy humble reach;

860

870

880

*The translators of the Anthology have since published separate poems, which evince genius that only requires oppor tunity to attain eminence.

+ The neglect of the "Botanic Garden," is some proof of returning taste: the scenery is its sole recommendation.

Messrs. Lambe and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of Southey and Co.

The native genius with their feeling given
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven.
And thou, too, SCOTT!* resign to minstrels rude
The wilder slogan of a border feud:

Let others spin their meagre lines for hire;
Enough for Genius if itself inspire!

Let SOUTHEY sing, although bis teeming Muse,

Prolific every spring, be too profuse,

Let simple WORDSWORTH chime his childish verse,
Aud brother COLERIDGE lull the babe at nurse;
Let spectre-mongering LEWIS aim, at most,

To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost;

Let MOORE be lewd; let STRANGFORD steal from

MOORE,

And swear that CAMEONS sang such notes of yore;
Let HAYLEY hobble on ; MONTGOMERY rave;
And godly GRAHAME chant a stupid stave;
Let sonnetteering BOWLES his strains refine,
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line;
Let STOTT, CARLISLET, MATILDA, and the rest
Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-place the best,

900

*By the bye, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem his hero or heroine will be less addicted to " Gramarye," and more to Grammar, than the lady of the Lay, and her Bravo William of Deloraine.

It may be asked why I have censured the earl of Carlisle, my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few years ago. The guardianship was nom inal, at least as far I have been able to discover; the relationship I cannot help, and am very sorry for it; but as his lordship seemed to forget it on a very essential occasion to me, I shall nor burthen my memory with the recollection. I do not think that personal differences sanction the unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler; but I see no reason why they should act as a preventive, when the author, noble orig. noble, has for a series of years beguiled a " discerning public" (as the advertisements have it) with divers reams of most or thodox, imperial nonsense. Besides I do not step aside to vituperate the earl; no-his works come fairly in review with those of other Patrician Literati. If before I escaped from my teens, I said any thing in favour of his lordship's paper books, it was in the way of dutiful dedication, and more from