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Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires,
And modern Britons justly praise their sires.*

For me, who, thus unask'd, have dared to tell
My country, what her sons should know too well,
Zeal for her honour bade me here engage
The host of idiots that infest her age ;
No just applause her honour'd name shall lose,
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse.
Oh! would thy bards but emulate thy fame,
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name !
What Athens was in science, Rome in power,
What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour,
'Tis thine at once, fair Albion ! to have been-
Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's mighty queen :
But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain,
And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the main :
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurld,
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world.
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate,+
With warning ever scoff’d at, till too late ;
To themes less lofty still my lay confine,
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine.

Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest,
The senate's oracles, thy people's jest,
Still hear thy motley orators dispense
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense,
While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit,
And old dame Portland I fills the place of Pitt.

Yet once again, adieu ! ere this the sail
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale;
And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height, s
And Stamboul's || minarets must greet my sight :
Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clime, I
Where Kaff**is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snowssublime.
But should I back return, no letter'd rage
Shall drag my common place book on the stage.
Let vain Valentiatt rival luckless Carr,
And equal him whose work he sought to mar;
Let Aberdeen and Elgin II still pursue
The shade of fame through regions of virtù ;

• The“ Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem by Richards.

The mad, prophetic daughter of Priam, whose predictions were never believed. I A friend of mine being asked why his Grace of P, was likened to an old woman? replied," he supposed it was because he was past bearing."

Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar.
Stamboul is the Turkish word for Constantinople.

Georgia, remarkable for the beauty of its inhabitants. # Mount Caucasus.

H Lord Valentia (whose tremendous travels are forthcoming with due decorations, graphical, topographical, and typographical) deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky suit, that Dubois's satire prevented his purchase of the “ Stranger in Ireland."--Oh, fie, my lord ! has your lordship no more feeling for a fellow-tourist ? “But two of a trade, they say, &c.

11 Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures, with and without noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of Phidias !" Credat Judæus"

Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks,
Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques ;
And make their grand saloons a general mart
For all the mutilated blocks of art.
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell,
I leave topography to classic Gell ;*
And, quite content, no more shall interpose
To stun mankind with poesy or prose.

Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career,
Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear ;
This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain’d to own-
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown,
My voice was heard again, though not so loud,
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd;
And now at once I tear the veil away :-
Cheer on the pack—the quarry stands at bay,
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne House,
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse,
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage,
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough,
And feel they too “ are penetrable stuff :"
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go,
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe.
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall;
Nor fools nor follies teinpt me to despise
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes ;
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth,
I've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth;
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree,
And break him on the wheel he meant for me ;
To

spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss ;
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown,
I, too, can hunt a poetaster down;
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce.
Thus much I've dared to do ; how far my lay
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say:
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare,
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare.

• Mr. Gell's “ Topography of Troy and Ithaca " cannot fail to insure the approbation of every man possessed of classical taste, as well for the information Mr. G. conveys to the mind of the reader, as for the ability and research the respective works display.

POSTSCRIPT. I HAVE been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting Muse, whom they have already so bedevilled with their ungodly ribaldry:

“ Tantæne animis cælestibus iræ !" I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Aguecheek saith, “An I had known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought him.” What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorns before the next number has passed the Tweed. But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in Persia.

My Northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality towards their great literary Anthropophagus, Jeffrey; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by “ lying and slandering," and slake their thirst by “evil speaking?" I have

adduced facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opinion, nor has he thence sustained any injury ;-what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England because I have censured there " persons of honour and wit about town;" but I am coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are very different from fears, literary or personal; those who do not, may one day be convinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been concealed; I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels; but, alas! “the age of chivalry is over,” or in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit nowadays.

There is a youth yclept Hewson Clarke (subandi, Esquire) a Sizer of Emanuel College, and I believe a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has been accustomed to meet; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the “ Satirist,” for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard his name till coupled with the “ Satirist." He has therefore no reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my ear band my book, except the editor of the “ Satirist," who, it seems, is a gentleman, Gorl wot! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr. Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for his Mæcenas, Lord Carlisle. I hope not: he was one of the few, in the very short intercourse I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy; and what. ever he may say or do, “pour on, I will endure.” I have nothing further to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publisher; and in the words of Scott, I wish

“ To all and each a fair good night,
And rosy dreams and slumbers light."

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM AT MALTA.

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer by ;
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,

May mine attract thy pensive eye !
And when by thee that name is read,

Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.

Septeinber 14, 1809.

TO FLORENCE.
Oh Lady! when I left the shore,

The distant shore which gave me birth,
I hardly thought to grieve once more,

To quit another spot on earth :
Yet here, amidst this barren isle,

Where panting Nature droops the head,
Where only thou art seen smile,

I view my parting hour with dread.
Though far from Albin's craggy shore,

Divided by the dark blue main,
A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er,

Perchance I view her cliffs again:
But wheresoe'er I now may roam,

Through scorching clime and varied sea,
Though Time restore me to my home,

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee;
On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms, which heedless hearts can move,
Whom but to see is to admire,

And, oh ! forgive the word—to love.
Forgive the word, in one who ne'er

With such a word can more offend;
And since thy heart I cannot share,

Believe me, what I am, thy friend.
And who, so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less ?
Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of beauty in distress?
Ah! who would think that form had pass'd

Through Danger's most destructive path,
Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast,

And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath ?

Lady! when I shall view the walls

Where free Byzantium once arose,
And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now inclose;
Though mightiest in the lists of fame,

That glorious city still shall be ;
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim,

As spot of thy nativity :
And though I bid thee now farewell,

When I behold that wondrous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
'Twill soothe to be where thou hast been.

September, 1809.

STANZAS

COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM, AND WHILE BEWILDERED

NEAR MOUNT PINDUS, IN ALBANIA.
CAILL and mirk is the nightly blast,

Where Pindus' mountains rise,
And angry clouds are pouring fast

The vengeance of the skies.
Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,

And lightnings, as they play,,
But show where rocks our path have cross'd,

Or gild the torrent's spray.
Is yon a cot I saw, though low ?

When lightning broke the gloom-
How welcome were its shade !-ah, no!

'Tis but a Turkish tomb.
Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,

I hear a voice exclaim
My way-worn

countryman, who calls
On distant England's name.
A shot is fired-by foe or friend ?

Another—'tis to tell
The mountain-peasants to descend,

And lead us where they dwell.
Oh ! who in such a night will dare

To tempt the wilderness?
And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear

Our signal of distress?
And who that heard our shouts would rise

To try the dubious road ?
Nor rather deem from nightly cries

That outlaws were abroad.

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