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we see

Them written without heads; and books, But to the point: while hovering o'er the

brink Are fill'd as well without the latter too: Of Skiddaw (where, as usual, it still rain'd). And really till we fix on somebody I saw a taper, far below me, wink, For certain sure to claim them as his due, And, stooping, caught this fellow at & Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will


No less on History than the Holy Bible. The world to say if there be mouth or author.

The former is the devil's scripture, and “And who and what art thon?” the Arch- The latter yours, good Michael ; so the angel said.

affair “For that, you may consult my title-page,” Belongs to all of us, you understand. Replied this mighty Shadow of a Shade: I snatch'd him up just as you see him there

. “If I have kept my secret half an age, And brought him off for sentence out of I scarce shall tell it now.”_"Canst thou

hand: upbraid," I've scarcely been ten minutes in the airContinued Michael, “George Rex, or allcge At least a quarter it can hardly be: Aught further ? ” Junius answer'd, “Yon I dare say that his wife is still at tea."

had better
First ask him for his answer to my letter:

Here Satan said, “I know this man of old.
And have expected him for some time here

; My charges upon record will outlast A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, The brass of both his epitaph and tomb.” Or more conceited in his peity sphere: “Repent'st thou not,” said Michael, "of But surely it was not worth while to fold

some past

Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear! Exaggeration? something which may doom We had the poor wretch safe (without being Thyself, if false, as him if true? Thou wast

bored Too bitter-is it not so? in thy gloom With carriage) coming of his own accord. Of passion ? ” “Passion !” cried the Phan

tom dim, “I loved my country, and I hated him. But since he's he let's see what he has


"Done!” cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates What I have written, I have written: let The very business you are now upon, The rest be on his head or mine!” So spoke And scribbles as if head-clerk to the Fates

. Old “Nominis Umbra;" and while speaking Who knows to what his ribaldry may run


When such an ass as this, like Balaani, Away he melted in celestial smoke. Then Satan said to Michael, “Don't forget “Let's hear,” quoth Michael, “what he has To call George Washington, and John

to say ; Horne Tooke, You know we're bound to that in every way. And Franklin:"_but at this time there was

heard A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. Now the Bard, glad to get an audience, which

By no means often was his case below,

Began to cough, and hawk, and hein, and At length, with jostling, elbowing, and

the aid

His voice into that awful note of woe Of cherubim appointed to that post, To all unhappy hearers within reach The devil Asmodeus to the circle made Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow; His way, and look'd as if his journey cost But stuck fast with his first hexameter. Some trouble. When

his burden down he Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir.

laid, “What's this?” cried Michael ; "why, 'tis

not a ghost ?” But ere the spavind dactyls could be spurr'i “I know it," quoth the incubus; “but he Into recitative, in great dismay Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. Both cherubim and seraphim were heard

To murmur londly through their long array

And Michael rose ere he could get a word Confound the Renegado! I have spraind of all his founder'd verses under way, My left wing, he's so heavy; one would think And cried, "For God's sake stop, my friends! Some of his works about his neck were


Non Di, non homines—" you know the rest."



'twere best


A general bustle spread throughout the |And then against them, bitterer than evers


For pantisocracy lie once had cried Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation; Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever; The angels had of course enough of song Then grew a hearty anti-jacobinWhen upon service; and the generation Had turn'd his coat- and would have turn'd Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long

his skin. Before, to profit by a new occasion; The Monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd

“What! what! He had sung against all battles, and again Pye come again? Nomore-no more of that!" In their high praise and glory; he had callid

Reviewing “the nngentle craft," and then

Become as base a critic as e'er crawlid The tumult grew, an universal cough Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, By whom his muse and morals had been When Castlereagh has been up long enough

maulid: (Before he was first minister of state, He had written much blank verse, and I mean, the slaves hear now), some cried

blanker prose, "off, off," And more of both than any body knows. As at a farce; till grown quite desperate, The Bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose (Himself an author) only for his prose. He had written Wesley's life:-here, turn

ing round

To Satan, “Sir, I'm ready to write yours, The varlet was not an ill-favour'd knave; In two octavo volumes, nicely bound, A good deal like a vulture in the face, With notes and preface, all that most allures with a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which The pious purchaser; and there's no ground

For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers : A smart and sharper looking sort of grace So let me have the proper documents, To his whole aspect, which, though rather That I may add you to my other saints."

Was by no means so ugly as his case;
But that indeed was hopeless as can be, Satan bow'd, and was silent. “Well, if you,
Quite a poetic felony "de se.”

With amiable modesty, decline
My offer, what says Michael? There are few

Whose memoirs could be render'd more Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd

divine. the noise

Mine is a pen of all work; not so new With one still greater, as is yet the mode As it was once, but I would make you shine On earth besides; except some grumbling Like your own trumpet; by the way, my own


Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. Which now and then will make a slight

inroad l'pon decorous silence, few will twice But talking about trumpets, here's my Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrowd;

Vision ! And now the Bard could plead his own Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you bad cause,

shall With all the attitudes of self-applauso. Judge with my judgment! and by my


Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall! He said—(I only give the heads)—he said, I settle all thesc things by intuition, He meant no harm in scribbling; 'twas his Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, way

and all, l'pon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread, Like King Alfonso! When I thus see double, of which he butter'd both sides; 'twould I save the Deity some worlds of trouble.”

delay Too long the assembly (he was pleased to


He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no And take up rather more time than a day, Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, To name his works_ he would but cite a few – Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so Wat Tyler, Rhymes on Blenheim, Waterloo. He read the first three lines of the contents;

But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show

Had vanish'd with variety of scents, He had written praises of a regicide; Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang, He had written praises of all kings whatever; Like lightning, off from his “melodious He had written for republics, far and wide,


Those grand heroics acted as a spell : He first sunk to the bottom-like his works, The angels/stopp'd their ears and plied their But soon rose to the surface-like himsell;


For all corrupted things are buoy'd, like The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to

corks, hell;

By their own rottenness, light as an elf, The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own Or wisp that flits o'er a morass: he larks,


It may be, still, like dull books on a shell, (For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell, In his own den, to scrawl some "Life" ar And I leave every man to his opinions);

“Vision," Michael took refuge in his trump-but lo! As Wellborn says—"the devil tarn'd preHis teeth were set on edge, he could not

cisian." blow!

As for the rest, to come to the conclusing Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known Of this true dream, the telescope is gone For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, Which kept my optics free from all delusion

. And at the fifth line knock'd the Poet down; And show'd me what I in my turn bave Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease,

shown: Into his lake, for there he did not drown, All I saw further in the last confusion. A different web being by the Destinies Was, that King George slipp'd into hearen Woven for the Laureate's final wreath,

for one ; whene'er

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm. i Reform shall happen either here or there. I left him practising the hundredth psala


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A SKETCH FROM PRIVATE LIFE. Foild was perversion by that youthful

mind, Honest- honest Iago!

Which flattery fool'd not, baseness could If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee.

not blind. SHAKøreale. Deceit infect not, near contagion soil,

Indulgence weaken, nor example spoil. Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, Nor master'd science tempt her to look dont Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head; On humbler talents with a pitying frovi, Next--for some gracious service unexprest, Nor genius swell, nor beauty render vait, And from its wages only to be guess'd- Nor envy ruffle to retaliate pain, Raised from the toilet to the table, where Nor fortune change, pride raise, nor passion Her wondering betters wait behind her

bow, chair:

Nor virtue teach austerity-till now. With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash’d, Serenely purest of her sex that live, She dines from off the plate she lately washa, But wanting

one sweet weakness_to forgia Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie, Too shockd at faults her soul can never The genial confidante, and general spy;

know, Who could, ye gods! her next employment She deems that all could be like her belor


Foe to all vice, yet hardly virtue's friendAn only infant's earliest governess ! For virtue pardons those she would amend She taught the child to read, and taught

so well That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to But to the theme-now laid aside too long


The baleful burthen of this honest song An adept next in penmanship she grows, Though all her former functious are o As many a nameless slander deftly show8:

more, What she had made the papil of her art, She rules the circle which she served before. None know—but that high soul secured the If mothers-none know why – before her heart,

quake; And panted for the truth it could not hear, Ir daughters dread her for the mother's sake With longing breast and undeluded ear. If early habits-those false links, which bind

with prayer,




At times the loftiest to the meanest mind- Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, Have given her power too deeply to instil | The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast The angry essence of her deadly will;

spread! If like a snake she steal within your walls, Then, when thou fain wouldst weary heaven Till the black slime betray her as she


Look on thine earthly victims--and despair! If like a viper to the heart she wind, Down to the dust!-and, as thou rott'st And leave the venom there she did not find;

away, What marvel that this hag of hatred works Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous Eternal evil latent as she lurks,

clay. To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, But for the love I bore, and still must bear, And reign the Hecate of domestic hells? To her thy malice from all ties would tear,

Thy name-thy human name—to every eye

The climax of all scorn should hang on high, Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers,


And festering in the infamy of years. With all the kind mendacity of hints,

March 30, 1816. While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers

with smiles, A thread of candour with a web of wiles; A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,

ADDRESS, To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd

scheming; A lip of lies, a face form’d to conceal, THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. And, without feeling, mock at all who feel; With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown, In one dread night our city saw, and sighd, A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone. Bow'd to the dust the Drama's tower of pride; Mark how the channels of her yellow blood In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign. Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale, (For drawn from reptiles only may we trace Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and Congenial colours in that soul or face).

mourn’d, Look on her features! and behold her mind whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) As in a mirror of itself defined :

Through clouds of fire, the massy fragLook on the picture! deem it not o'er

ments riven, charged

Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from There is no trait which might not be

heaven; enlarged ; Saw the long column of revolving flames Yet true to “Nature's journeymen," who Shake its red shadow o'er the startled made

Thames, This monster when their mistress left off While thousands, throng’d around the trade,

burning dome, This female dog-star of her little sky, Shrank back appall’d, and trembled for Where all beneath her influence droop or die.

their home, As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly

shone Oh! wretch without a tear-without a The skies, with lightnings awful as their thought,

own, Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought-Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall The time shall come, nor long remote, Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her

when thou Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now; Say, shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, Reard where once rose the mightiest in And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.

our isle, May the strong curse of crush'd affections Know the same favour which the former light

knew, Back on thy bogom with reflected blight! A shrine for Shakespeare-worthy him and And make thee, in thy leprosy of mind,

you ? As loathsome to thyself as to inankind! Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, Black as thy will for others would create: Yes, it shall be-the magic of that naine Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame; And thy soul welter in ito hideous crust. On the same spot still consocrates the scene,


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And bids the Drama be where she hath been: Springs from our hearts, and fain would This fabric's birth attests the potent spell –

win your own. Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well! The curtain rises - may our stage unfold

Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!

Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, As soars this fane to emulate the last, Still may we please - long, long may yos Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past,

preside! Some hour propitious to our prayers may

Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art
O'erwhelm’d the gentlest, storm'd the steru-

est heart,
On Drury Garrick's latest laurels grew; On Venice! Venice! when thy marble-walls
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Are level with the waters, there shall be
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,

adieu :

A loud lament along the sweeping sea! But still for living wit the wreaths may If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,


What should thy sons do ?-any thing bei That only waste their odours o’er the tomb.

weep: Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you And yet they only murmur in their sleep.


In contrast with their fathers-as the slime, One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; The dall green ooze of the receding deep, With garlands deck your own Menander's Is with the dashing of the spring-tide-foan,


That drives the sailor shipless to his home, Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead! Are they to those that were; and thus they


Crouching and crab - like, through their Dear are the days which made our annals

sapping streets. bright,

Oh! agony -- that centuries should reap Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred lleirs to their labours, like all high-born

years heirs,

Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears, Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; And every monument the stranger meets, While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets;


And even the Lion all subdued appears, To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine With dull and daily dissonance, repeats Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, The echo of thy tyrant's voice along Pause -- ere their feebler offspring you The soft waves, once all musical to song,


That heaved beneath the moonlight with Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

the throng Of gondolas—and to the busy hum

of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful Friends of the stage! to whom both Play

deeds ers and Plays Were but the overbeating of the heart, Must sue alike for pardon, or for praise, And flow of too much happiness, which needs Whose judging voice and eye alone direct The aid of age to turn its course apart The boundless power to cherish or reject; From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood And made us blush that you forbore to blame; But these are better than the gloomy errors, If e'er the sinking stage could condescend The weeds of nations in their last decay, To soothe the sickly taste, it dare not inend, When Vice walks forth with her unsoftene All past reproach may present scenes refute,

terrors, And censure, wisely loud, be justly mate! And Mirth is madness,and but smiles to slay; Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, And Hope is nothing but a false delay, Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; The sick man's lightning half an hour ere So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's

death, powers,

When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours! And apathy of limb, the dull beginning

of the cold staggering race which Death

is winning, This greeting o’er,the ancient rule obey'd, Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; The Drama's homage by her herald paid, Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone To him appears renewal of his breath,

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