And Pratt himself would undertake an Ode

In one short ramble on the Hampstead road.
But high above the rest, distinguish'd far,
As Bard and Tourist, shone the mighty Carr !*

*

Many a name to Learning dear,
Bears his faithful, fond record-
Greet his memory with a tear!
Give his name the like reward!

Rich in Antiquarian lore,

Pageants quaint, and deeds of arms;
He from History's ample store

Drew its most romantic charms.

Blest with candour, liberal praise,
Years beheld his fame increase-
Cheerfulness, and length of days,
Friendship, competence, and peace!

To no quibbling Sect a slave,

His religion was from Heaven;
And to want he freely gave

What to him was freely given.

Thoughts of those that once had been,
Sweet remembrance of the past,
Cheer'd him through life's closing scene-
Of those honour'd names-the last!

England, mourn! for never yet

Time beheld a nobler train;

Thou hast seen thy glory set,

When shall it arise again?

"O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!" exclaims some astonished reader, uninitiated in the mys

Of scribes the chief! and once upon a time
The undisputed Lord of prose and rhyme.
Hist'ries he wrote, and etchings he would draw
Of towns and cities-that he never saw :-
And travell'd daily o'er much foreign land,
(More wondrous still!)-in Bridge Street, or the
Strand.-

And hence arose, with all his boasted care,
Some odd mistakes, which made the reader stare.
Thus German dames were beauteous to the sight,
The French profoundly grave, the Dutch polite;
The Scotch sincere, and Ireland's jovial sons
Too dull by half to relish jokes and puns.
Did critics sneer at some unlucky guess?
Sir John's own bulls were-errors of the press :
And lest upon his back the rod should fall,
The Printers' Devils were to blame for all.
But soon Sir Richard found, (sagacious elf!)
The Knight lov'd money, and his works the shelf;
Whereat Sir Richard, of his bargain sick,
And heartily repenting of the trick,

teries of Sir Richard's manufactory; but his wonder will cease when he is informed that Sir John Carr is one of those gentlemen who perform their travels up four pair of stairs. It was not until the appearance of "My Pocket Book," that the publick were completely let into the secret of Sir John's art of Book-making.

Consign'd the Quartos to a different fate,
And eas'd his counter of their pond'rous weight;
To pastry-cooks dispers'd them, sheet by sheet,
By which Sir John was read in every street;
Propitiation just, by all confest,

For martyr'd truth, and history made a jest.*

Some love a jingling rhyme with all their heart, Where love and nonsense bear an equal part; Like Rosa's sonnets, in themselves a host, Rosa, the Sappho of the Morning Post; Or Hafiz' madrigals, but rarely seen,"

A heap of sounding words which nothing mean.

Some authors love in Epic strains to soar,
And swell to be what Homer was before;
Thus, Asperne's day, and Talavera's fight,
Have made some scribblers in their own despite.
Others, the dupes of an infectious rage,
Ransack the dulness of a former age;

For rare, moth-eaten parchments search the land,
And poring much, but little understand.
There mote you spy the pedant deep y-read,
In useless heaps of learned lumber dead,
Damning all modern wit as dull, absurd,

* "Truth sacrific'd, and History made a jest."

Since the bright days of Caxton and De Worde.*
So, when some Virtuoso smuggles home

The mutilated blocks of Greece and Rome,
Heads, noses, arms, our curious eyes engage,
We prize their beauty much, but more their age;
Not Chantrey's art so wonderful appears,

It wants the sanction of three thousand years.

How oft some newv-fledg'd Bardling on the wing, t Essays a puny flight, and tries to sing, Whose trifling Muse, by folly nurtur'd long, Ne'er soar'd above a rebus, or a song.

On frozen banks the purple violets rise,

And roses bloom beneath December skies;
For contrarieties in place and time,

Quand je vois quelque chose que je n'entends pas," says the Frenchman, "je suis toujours dans l'admiration !"

"Safie, an Eastern Tale," by J. H. Reynolds, "after Lord Byron's manner!" opens with the following rhapsody:

"Oh! peace had long rested in Assad's harem,
'Till the clang of arms, the war's alarum,
Had scar'd the meek-ey'd damsel from
Her fair abode, her smiling home.
Happiest Assad! then wast thou sharing
The smiles of a maiden fair and free,
As e'er whisper'd Love is melody;

Ever fulfilling, and ever declaring,

She kiss'd thee hence, when the steed was mounted," &c. &c.

D

Our poets think allowable in rhyme.*

To doggerel verse, where sense is never found,
(An easy task) we give the charm of sound:
Thus: With percussive palm the door assails,†
Now scrapes the gritty wall with bleeding nails,
Now running round, help! help! with shrill alarms,
Help! help help! help! and writhes her frantic

arms.

O live, my joy, my solace! sobs she wild;
Why do you gaze on me, my heav'nly child?
She sees not, hears not! Speak, in mercy move!
Here, here is milk-awake, my love, my love!!"

F. All this is sorry trash, and well may claim The rod of Satire-hear a nobler name:

* Mr. W. Taylor, author of " Parnassian Wild Shrubs," begins his volume thus:

Ever pleasing! ever new!
Never tiresome to the view!
Novelty of varied hue,

Much I love to gaze on you,

Thou who ever art the same.

"Woman," a Poem, written by Mr. Eaton Stannard Barrett. Mr. Taylor and Mr. Barrett make a very tolerable pair; Mr. Taylor has more absolute dulness, and Mr. Barrett more empty conceitedness; Mr. Taylor whines, and Mr. Barrett frisks;-but I will pursue the parallel no further; nor stop (as Johnson says) to settle the point of precedence between a louse and a flea.