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may be,

And now on that mountain I stood on

that day, HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. But I mark'd not the twilight-beam melting

away; Da, Mariamne! now for thee

Oh! would that the lightning had glared The heart for which thou bled'st is

in its stead, bleeding;

And the thunderbolt burst on the conquerRevenge is lost in agony,

or's head! And wild remorse to rage succeeding. Oh, Mariamne! where art thou ?

But the Gods of the Pagan shall never Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading :

profane Ah,couldst thou—thon wouldst pardon now, The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to Though Heaven were to my prayer un

reign ; heeding.

And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people And is she dead ?—and did they dare Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.

Obey my phrensy's jealous raving?
My wrath but doom'd my own despair:
The sword that smote her 's o'er me

waving. -
But thou art cold, my murder'd love!

We sat down and wept by the waters And this dark heart is vainly craving Of Babel, and thought of the day For her who soars alone above,

When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, And leaves my soul unworthy saving. Made Salem's high places his prey ;

And ye, oh her desolate Daughters! She's gone, who shared my diadem; Were scatter'd all weeping away.

She sunk, with her my joys entombing; I swept that flower from Judah's stem

While sadly we gazed on the river Whose leaves for me alone were blooming; Which rollid on in freedom below, And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell, They demanded the song; but, oh never

This bosom's desolation dooming; And I have earn'd those tortures well,

That triumph the stranger shall know!

May this right hand be wither'd for ever, Which unconsumed are still consuming!

Ere it string our high harp for the foe! XX.

On the willow that harp is suspended,

Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION And the hour when thy glories were ended,

But left me that token of thee:

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended From the last hill that looks on thy once

With the voice of the spoiler by me!

holy dome I beheld thee, oh Sion! when render'd to Rome:

XXII. 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the

flames of thy fall THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNAFlash'd back on the last glance I gave to


Tnx Assyrian came down like the wolf I look’d for thy temple, I look’d for my

on the fold, home,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple And forgot for a moment my bondage tocome;

and gold; I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy And the sheen of their spears was like stars fane,

on the sea, And the fast-fetter'd hands that made ven- When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep


thy wall.

geance in vain.



is green,

were seen:

many an eve, the high spot whence I Like the leaves of the forest when Summer Had reflected the last beam of day as it That host with their banners at sunset

blazed ; While I stood on the height, and beheld Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn the decline

hath blown, of the rays from the mountain that shone That host on the morrow lay wither'd and on thy shrine.


For the Angel of Death spread his wings And the idols are broko in the temple of Baal;

on the blast, And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by And breathed in the face of the foe as he

the sword, pass'd;

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly

Lord ! and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for

XXIII. ever grew still!

FROM JOB. And there' lay the steed' with his nostril

all wide,

A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld But through it there roll'd not the breath The face of Immortality unveil'd

of his pride: Deep sleep came down on every eye sare And the foam of his gasping lay white on

minethe turf,

And there it stood, all formless_but divide: And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. Along my bones the creeping filesh did quake;

And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake: And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on “Is man more just than God? Is mar his mail;

more pure And the tents were all silent, the banners Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure!


Creatures of clay- vain dwellers in the dust! The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. The moth survives you,and are ye more just!

Things of a day! you wither ere the nighi, And the vidove of Ashur are loud in Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted their wail,



Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce summo

The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by
the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues,
and military talents were loudly celebrated; and those who
derived any private benefit from his government announced
in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity.

By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years,
in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile,
till Gibron'Decline and Fall, Chapt. 36.

T18 done but yesterday a King! With might unquestion'd,-power to save

And arm’d with Kings to strive- Thine only gift hath been the grave And now thou art a nameless thing

To those that worshipp'd thee; So abject-yet alive!

Nor, till thy fall, could mortals guess Is this the man of thousand thrones, Ambition's less than littleness ! Who strew'd our Earth with hostile


Thanks for that lesson-it will teach
And can he thus survive ?

To after-warriors more
Since he, miscall'd the Morning-Star, Than high Philosophy can preach,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen 80 far. And vainly preach'd before.

That spell upon the minds of men
111-minded man! why scourge thy kind Breaks never to unite again,
Who bow'd so low the knee?

That led them to adore
By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thosc Pagod-things of sabre-sway,
Thou taught'st the rest to sce.

With fronts of bruss, and foet of clay.

The triumph, and the vanity,

Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, The rapture of the strife

When thus thy mightiest foes their four The earthquake-shout of Victory,

In humblest gnise have shown.
To thee the breath of life;

Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway A brighter namo to lure mankind !
Which man seem'd made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife-.

Thine evil deeds are writ in goro,
All quellid !-- Dark Spirit! what must be Nor written thus in vain-
The madness of thy memory!

Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,

Or deepen every stain. The Desolator desolate!

If thou hadst died as honour dies, The Victor overthrown!

Some new Napoleon might arise, The Arbiter of others' fate

To shame the world again, A Suppliant for his own!

But who would soar the solar height, Is it some yet imperial hope

To set in such a starless night?
That with such change can calmly scope?
Or dread of death alone?

Weigh'd in the balance, hero-dust
To die a prince-or live a slave-

Is vile as vulgar clay;
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! Thy scales, Mortality! are just

To all that pass away;
He who of old would rend the oak, But yet methought the living great
Dream'd not of the rebound;

Some higher sparks should animate,
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke,

To dazzle and dismay; Alonehow look'd he round ?

Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirth Thon, in the sternness of thy strength Of these, the Conquerors of the earth! An equal deed hast done at length, And darker fate hast found :

And She, proud Austria's mournful flower, He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey ;

Thy still imperial bride; But thou must eat thy heart away!

How bears her breast the torturing hour?

Still clings she to thy side? The Roman, when his burning heart

Must she too bend, must she too share Was slaked with blood of Rome,

Thy late repentance, long despair, Threw down the dagger - dared depart,

Thou throneless Homicide? In savage grandeur, home.

If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, He dared depart, in utter scorn

'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem ! Of men that such a yoke had borne,

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour

And gaze upon the sea ;
Of self-upheld abandon’d power.

That element may meet thy smile,

It ne'er was ruled by thee! The Spaniard, when the lust of sway

Or trace with thine all idle hand, Had lost its quickening spell,

In loitering mood, upon the sand,

That Earth is now as free!
Cast crowns for rosaries away,

That Corinth's pedagogue bath now
An empire for a cell;
A strict accountant of his beads,

Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow.
A subtle disputant on creeds,

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage His dotage trifled well:

What thoughts will there be thine, Yet better had he neither known

While brooding in thy prison'd rage? A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

But one-“The world was mine:"

Uuless, like he of Babylon,
But thou—from thy reluctant hand All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
The thunderbolt is wrung

Life will not long confine
Too late thou leav'st the high command That spirit pour'd go widely forth-
To which thy weaknessi clung;

So long obey'd -80 little worth !
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart,

Or like the thief of fire from heaven,
To see thine own unstrung;

Wilt thou withstand the shock ?
To think that God's fairt world hath been And share 'with him, the unforgiven,
The footstool of a thing so mean ;

His vulture and his rock!

Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst, And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, And that last act, though not thy worst, Who thus can hoard his own!

The very Fiend's arch mock;
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, He in his fall preserved his pride,
And thank'd him for a throne!

And, if a mortal, had as proudly died !

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any production which was not entirely and

exclusively my own composition. SECOND

With regard to the real talents of many

of the poetical persons whose performances ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, are mentioned or alluded to in the followhave urged me not to publish this Satire ing pages, it is presumed by the author ! with my name. If I were to be “turn'd that there can be little difference of opinion from the career of my humour by quibbles in the public at large; though, like other quick, and paper-bullets of the brain,” I sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle should have complied with their counsel. of proselytes, by whom his abilities are But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or overrated, his faults overlooked, and bis bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. metrical canons received without scruple I can safely say that I have attacked none and without consideration. But the utpersonally who did not commence on the questionable possession of considerable geoffensive. An author's works are public nius by several of the writers here censured, property: he who purchases may judge, renders their mental prostitution more to and publish his opinion if he pleases; and be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, ot, the authors I have endeavoured to comme- at worst, laughed at and forgotten ; per. morate may do by me as I have done by verted powers demand the most decided them. I dare say they will succeed better reprehension. No one can wish more than in condemning my scribblings, than in the author, that some known and able wri

. mending their own. But my object is not ter had undertaken their exposure; but to prove that I can write well, but, if pos- Mr. GIFFORD has devoted himself to Massible, to make others write better.

singer, and, in the absence of the regular As the Poem has met with far more suc- physician, a country-practitioner may, in cess than I expected, I have endeavoured cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to in this edition to make some additions and prescribe his nostrum, to prevent the eralterations to render it more worthy of tension of so deplorable an epidemic. propublic perusal.

vided there be no quackery in his treatment In the first edition of this Satire, published of the malady. A caustic is here offered, anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject as it is to be feared nothing short of actual of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted cautery can recover the numerons patients at the request of an ingenious friend of mine, afflicted with the present prevalent and who has now in the press a volume of distressing rabies for rhyming.-As to the poetry. In the present edition they are Edinburgh Reviewers, it would, indeed, reerased, and some of my own substituted inquire a Hercules to crush the Hydra; but their stead: my only reason for this being if the author succeeds in merely bruising that which I conceive would operate with one of the heads of the serpent," though any other person in the same manner-a his own hand should suffer in the encoundetermination not to publish with my name' ter, he will be amply satisfied.


Still must I hear?_shall hoarse Fitz-The cry is up, and Scribblers are my games,

GERALD bawl Speed, Pegasus !-ye strains of great and lis creaking couplets in a tavern-hall,

small, Ind I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all! hould dub me scribbler, and denounce my I too can scrawl, and once upon a time

Muse ?

I pour'd along the town a flood of rhymePrepare for rhyme -I'll publish, right or a schoolboy - freak, unworthy praise or wrong:

blame: Pools are my theme, let Satire be my song. 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. Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my gray goose- Not that a title's sounding charm can save


Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, This Lamb must own, since his patrician Torn from thy parent-bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men! Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental

shame. throes

No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, of brains that labour, big with verse or Tho' now the name is veil'd from public prose,

sight. Though nymphs forsake, and critics may Moved by the great example, I pursue


The self-same road, but make my own The lover's solace, and the author's pride:

review: What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise! Not seek great JEFFREY'S - yet, like him, How frequent is thy use, how small thy

will be
praise !

Self-constituted judge of poesy.
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to


A man must serve his time to every trade, But thon, at least, mine own especial pen! Save censure-critics all are ready made. Once laid aside, but now assumed again, Take hackney'd jokes from MILLER, got by Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be

rote, free;

With just enough of learning to misquote, Tho' spurn’d by others, yet beloved by me: A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault; Then let us soar to-day; no common theme, A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet, Inspires—our path, though full of thorns, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:

is plain;

Fear not to lie, 'twill scem a lucky hit; Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for


Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest, When Vice triumphant holds her sove- And stand a critic, hated yet caress’d.

reign sway, And men, through life her willing slaves,


And shall we own such judgment? noWhen Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Unfolds her motley store to suit the time; Seek roses in December, ice in June; When knaves and fools combined o'er all Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;


Believe a woman, or an epitaph; When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail, or any other thing that's false, before E’en then the boldest start from public You trust in critics who themselves are sore;


Or yield one single thought to be misled Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, By Jeffrey's heart, or LAMB's Bæotian More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,

head. And shrink from ridicule, though not from

To these young tyrants, by themselves

Such is the force of Wit! but not belong Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste;
To me the arrows of satiric song ; To these, when authors bend in humble awe,
The royal vices of our age demand And hail their voice as truth, their word
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.

as law; Still there are follies e'en for me to chase, While these are censors, 'twould be sin to And yield at least amusement in the race:

spare; Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame-While such are critics,why should I forbear?

as soon

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