What Juan saw and underwent shall be My topic, with of course the due restriction

Which is required by proper courtesy ; And recollect the work is only fiction, And that I sing of neither mine nor me, Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, [doubt Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er This-when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out.

Whether he married with the third or fourth

Offspring of some sage husband-hunting countess, [worth

Or whether with some virgin of more (I mean in Fortune's matrimonial

PREFACE

IT hath been wisely said, that "One fool makes many;" and it hath been poetically observed"That fools rush in where angels fear to tread."—Pope.

If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no business, and where he never was before, and never will be again, the following poem would not have been written. It is not impossi ble that it may be as good as his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, natu ral or acquired, be worse. The gross flattery, the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance, and impious cant, of the poem by the author of "Wat Tyler," are something so stupendous as to form the sublime of himself-containing the quintessence of his own attributes.

So much for his poem--a word on his preface. In this preface it has pleased the magnanimous Laureate to draw the picture of a supposed "Satanic School," the which he doth recommend to the notice of the legislature; thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition of those of an informer. If there exists anywhere except in his imagination, such a School, is he not sufficiently armed against it by his own intense vanity? The truth is, that there are certain writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to have "talked of him; for they laughed consumedly."

I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in their individual capacities, have done more good, in the charities of life, to their fellow-creatures, in any one year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdities in his whole life; and this is saying a great deal. But I have a few questions to ask.

1stly, Is Mr. Southey the author of "Wat Tyler?

2ndly, Was he not refused a remedy at law by the highest judge of his beloved England, because it was a blasphemous and seditious publication?

3dly, Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full parliament, “a rancorous renegado?" 4thly, Is he not poet laureate, with his own lines on Martin the regicide staring him in the face?

And, 5thly, Putting the four preceding items together, with what conscience dare he call the attention of the laws to the publications of others, be they what they may ?

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding, its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch upon the motive, which is neither more nor less than that Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in some recent publications, as he was of yore in the "Anti-Jacobin," by his present patrons. Hence all this "skimble-scamble stuff about "Satanic," and so forth. However it is worthy of him-“ qualis ab incepto."

If there is anything obnoxious to the political opinions of a portion of the public in the following poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. He might have written hexameters, as he has writ ten everything else, for aught that the writer cared--had they been upon another subject. But to attempt to canonize a monarch, who, whatever were his household virtues, was neither a successful nor a patriot king,-inasmuch as several years of his reign passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing of the aggression upon France.-like all other exaggeration, necessarily begets opposition. In what ever manner he may be spoken of in this new

"Vision," his public career will not be more favorably transmitted by history. Of his pri vate virtues (although a little expensive to the nation) there can be no doubt.

With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, I can only say that I know as much about them, and (as an honest man) have a better right to talk of them than Robert Southey. I have also treated them more tolerantly. The way in which that poor insane creature, the Laureate, deals about his judgments in the next world, is like his own judgment in this. If it was not completely ludicrous, it would be something worse. I don't think that there is much more to say at present. QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS,

For some resource to turn himself about,

And claim the help of his celestial peers, To aid him ere he should be quite worn out

By the increased demand for his remarks:

Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

This was a handsome board-at least for heaven;

And yet they had even then enough to do,

So many conquerors' cars were daily driven,

So many kingdoms fitted up anew; Each day too slew its thousands six or seven,

Till at the crowning carnage, Water

loo,

They threw their pens down in divine disgust

The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust.

This by the way; 't is not mine to record What angels shrink from: even the very devil

On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, So surfeited with the infernal revel: Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword,

It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil.

(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion

'T is, that he has both generals in reversion.)

Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace,

Which peopled earth no better, hell

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn

Left him nor mental nor external sun; A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn,

A worse king never left a realm undone!

He died-but left his subjects still behind,

One half as mad-and t'other no less blind.

He died! his death made no great stir on earth:

His burial made some pomp; there was profusion

Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth

Of aught but tears-save those shed by collusion.

For these things may be bought at their true worth:

Of elegy there was the due infusion— Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners,

Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,

Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show,

Who cared about the corpse? The funeral

Made the attraction, and the black the woe.

There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced the pall;

And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low,

It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold The rottenness of eighty years in gold.

So mix his body with the dust! It might Return to what it must far sooner, were The natural compound left alone to fight Its way back into earth, and fire, and air;

But the unnatural balsams merely blight What nature made him at his birth, as bare

As the mere million's base unmummied

But where's the proctor who will ask his son?

In whom his qualities are reigning still,

Except that household virtue, most un

common,

Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.

"God save the king!" It is a large

economy

In God to save the like; but if he will Besaving, all the better; for not one am I Of those who think damnation better still:

I hardly know too if not quite alone am I In this small hope of bettering future ill By circumscribing, with some slight restriction,

The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. I know this is unpopular; I know

"Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damn'd

For hoping no one else may e'er be so; I know my catechism; I know we're cramm'd

With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow;

I know that all save England's church have shamm'd,

And that the other twice two hundred churches

And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase.

God help us all! God help me too! I am, God knows, as helpless as the devil can

wish,

And not a whit more difficult to damn, Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish,

Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb;

Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish, As one day will be that immortal fry Of almost everybody born to die.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, And nodded o'er his keys; when, lo! there came

A wondrous noise he had not heard of late

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame;

In short, a roar of things extremely great,

Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim;

But he, with first a start and then a wink, [think! "There's another star gone out, I

Said,