Not the true dulness that inspires his lays,
But the false pride that makes him covet praise.

F. Then censure all mankind, for who is free? The flame that warms their bosoms dwells with thee.

In search of fame the soldier travels far,
The smirking lawyer courts it at the bar,
Th' intrepid seaman wins it at his post,
The man of virtue-

P.

When he shuns it most!F. The anxious poet claims it as his due, And (pr'ythee speak with candour) so do you. P. Thus candid, I reply-if now and then Success attend the labours of my pen,

If those who buy my works, and those who read,
Applaud-and that's a rarity indeed!

I'm not so proud, so squeamishly severe,
But honest Fame is pleasing to mine ear.
But that I write for that short-liv'd renown
Which Fashion gives the vot'ries of the town,
I cannot grant-for mark! the gift divine
Was Darwin's once, and, Busby, may be thine.

Athirst for fame, which Magazines, Reviews, Too coy, deny the labours of his Muse; My Lord (what will not vanity afford?) Invites a host of Critics to his board;

Some creeping, slip-shod hirelings of the day, Whom Colburn treats with "double pots and pay."

"My friends," he cries, "speak freely, tell me

plain,

What say the public to my epic strain ?”
Will they speak truth, too poor to be sincere?
But I may surely whisper in thine ear,
I who abhor a bribe;-then this-thy rhymes
In dulness rival past and present times;
So lame the weary audience think they see
Old Settle's doggerel new revived by thee;
So bad that worse will ne'er be seen again
Unless thou should'st resume thy scribbling vein.

From such pursuits 'twould turn thy trifling mind,
Had'st thou but, Janus-like, a face behind;
To mark the lolling tongue, the side-long leer,
The pointed finger, the contemptuous sneer,
And all the silent mock'ries of the town
That ridicule thy title to renown:

But thou must feast on flatt'ry all thy days,
And be the dupe of ev'ry blockhead's praise.*

* Doctor Busby is very complimentary to those Poetasters who subscribed to his English Lucretius: we have names "unknown to Phoebus" enumerated for a whole page together. Lord Thurlow's Hermilda in Palestine" is said to have afforded much pleasure to the lovers of fine

66

For mark their judgment, hear their quaint reply-
-When genius rears its head shall slander die ?
A brother's fame what brother bard endures?
Thus envy follows merit great as yours.
You try the epic strain-in colours true
A second Homer rises forth to view!

poetry; and Major James (a minor scribbler) has a long paragraph dedicated to his poetical talents! Next to the celebrated Martinus Scriblerus, Doctor Busby is the most profound explorer of the Bathos; take the following as a specimen

"From her this first, this sov'reign rule I bring,
All nature's substances from substance spring,
The gods from nothing ne'er made any thing."

But the most transcendent effort of all, is the Doctor's account of "Atoms". "These, (the atoms) moving from all eternity through immeasurable space; meeting, concussing, rebounding, combining, amassing according to their smooth, round, angular, and jagged figures, have produced all the compound bodies of the universe, animate and inanimate. The more clearly and compactly they lie, the more the body they form approximates to perfect solidity; as the condition is less intimate, it will be more vacuous and rare," &c. &c.

The following Impromptu was written on reading Doctor Busby's list of subscribers to his Lucretius:

"Homunculi quanti sunt, cum recogito!"

Plautus.

Now I recollect, how considerable are these little men!

All hearts you captivate, all tastes you hit,
With Hammond's tenderness, and Prior's wit.
Thus flatter'd by the minions of his board,
Who struts, who swells, who scribbles like My Lord?
And soon he rises in a feverish dream

A first-rate poet-in his own esteem.

"Good Doctor! what a motley tribe
Thy brass has tempted to subscribe,"
(Cry'd Phoebus in amaze ;)

"Pert wits, who murder sense and time,
As Dulness prompts, in prose and rhyme,
For profit, pride, or praise.

"What Mortal ever heard the names
Of Carysfort, or Major James,

Twin brethren of the quill?

Who (harmless scribblers!) strange to tell,
Was never prais'd for writing well,

Or blam'd for writing ill.

"If thou wert bent, with heart so hard,

To crucify the Roman Bard,

And sacrifice his fame,

What need hadst thou, devoid of grace,

To summon all the Grub-street race,
To glory in his shame?

"So Vulcan, in a jealous pet,

Caught Mars and Venus in a net;

Then further mischief brewing;

Invited (rude uncivil bear!)
The gods and goddesses to stare,

And laugh at their undoing."

Thurlow* (alas! will Thurlow never tire?)
New points his dulness, and new strings his lyre ;
That lyre which rang the praises in our ears
Of "godlike" poets, and "transcendent" peers;
With quick dispatch his teeming brain unloads,
Then issue forth Acrostics, Sonnets, Odes;
Loud empty bombast, flights of false sublime,
Not prose indeed-but tortur'd prose in rhyme.
F. Shall blood Patrician no distinction claim?
Dwell there no virtues in a noble name?
Is Title nothing? Wealth? Pray learn for once
One grain of prudence :—

P.

To respect a dunce ! Bow, flatter, dedicate, and bend the knee,

A mean dependant-this advice to me?
No, let me rather in affected drawl,

Write hymns with Collyer,+ idiot tales with Ball;‡

* Lord Thurlow, in addressing the Prince Regent, uses the following miraculous ascription

"Thames by thy victories is set on fire!"

The following verses are extracted from a book of hymns written by Doctor Collyer:

"Leaning on thy dear faithful breast

May I resign my breath;

And in thy soft embraces lose

The bitterness of death.